


"THE BAD SHEPHERD"

by Slasherfem



Category: Star Trek: The Next Generation
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, F/M, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-07-22
Updated: 2017-08-22
Packaged: 2018-12-05 13:05:28
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 15
Words: 104,810
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11578662
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Slasherfem/pseuds/Slasherfem
Summary: Two years after “MIRACLES”, Picard and Q are married and living happily together in Boston.  But when an unexpected visitor arrives, they discover that the Catholic Church has no intention of letting one of its priests go quietly.





	1. Chapter 1

CHAPTER ONE

_“Get back, get back,_ _get back to where you once belonged.”_

“Get Back”, The Beatles, 1970

BOSTON, MASSACHUSETTS, TUESDAY, 5:30 p.m., MARCH 20th, 2012

Jean-Luc Picard got home at half past five, tired but contented with the way the day had gone. He’d spent all day at Saint John the Apostle’s Community Center teaching English to Haitian and Mexican immigrants, sorting through used clothing, and helping the pastor, Father Joseph Lafayette, with the paperwork involved in running a community center. By the time the volunteers for the evening shift had arrived, he was ready to head for home. Thankful to be off kitchen duty this week, he stopped at the bakery on the way home to pick up bread and the birthday cake he’d ordered on Sunday for his husband.

When he got home, he put down his canvas shopping bag and got out his keys to open the mailbox in the lobby. While he was doing so, someone outside the glass lobby doors carefully moved into position so that he could see into the lobby without being seen. From where he stood on the sidewalk, he saw the distinguished figure of an older man, bald on top but with close-cropped white hair on the back and sides of his head, sorting through the letters he’d just taken from the mailbox. His clothes were appropriate for what he was now, a retired layman volunteering at a Catholic community center, but unsuitable for what he had been, and still should have been, from the watcher’s point of view.

 _*He should be in a brown robe, not in blue jeans!*_ the watcher thought. The blue parka Picard had unbuttoned when he entered the heated lobby revealed a turquoise blue sweater with a high collar, appropriate for the chilly March weather. After sorting through his mail, he stuffed it into the shopping bag, shut and locked the mailbox, then picked up the bag and headed for the elevator. The watcher saw him go into the elevator, greeting a young woman and her child on their way up from the basement laundry room. As the doors closed on the former priest, the watcher checked his wristwatch.

 _*I’ll wait until he’s had time to get his coat off and put the groceries away. Then I’ll buzz him from out here. I just hope that man he’s ‘married’ to doesn’t get home too soon.*_ He did his best work when the subject was alone, uninterrupted by family or friends, or whatever new spouse the subject had acquired since leaving the priesthood.

Upstairs in 3P, Picard hung up his coat, took his bag into the kitchen and checked on the cassoulet he had left in the crockpot this morning. As he lifted the lid, a savory smell rose from the pot full of navy beans, pieces of chicken left over from Sunday’s roast, and sausage with peppers and onions left over from the pasta sauce Q had made on Saturday. He sniffed appreciatively, stirred the cassoulet with a wooden spoon and fished out a bean, which he nibbled on. Finding the bean tender enough to eat, he then got out the carton of chicken broth from the fridge and added some to the pot to keep it from drying out before his husband got home. As he stirred it gently, a black cat glided into the kitchen and jumped up on the counter beside him.

 _*Something smells good!*_ the cat mewed as she sniffed at the crockpot. _*Can I have some?*_

“Hello, Isis,” Picard greeted the cat as he scratched her between the ears. “I was just checking on our dinner before I gave you yours.”

 _*Can I have some too? Please?*_ Isis purred as she rubbed her head against his left hand, the one that wasn’t stirring the pot. He stroked her sleek, black body as he estimated how much longer the cassoulet had to cook.

“I’ll give it another fifteen minutes,” he declared. He put the lid back on and set the kitchen timer. “In the meantime, I’ll give you some chicken too.”

 _*Oh, all right, if you’re not going to share...*_ Isis pouted as she jumped off the counter and strode to her food and water bowls in the corner, on the purple placemat beside the cupboard beneath the sink. Standing next to the ceramic purple bowl with a gold crown on the front, she sniffed at its empty interior and looked pointedly at him to remind him that it needed filling. The matching water bowl alongside it was only half full. There were no crumbs left over from this morning’s meal of chicken-flavored crunchies. Fixing her golden yellow eyes on him, she meowed impatiently. _*Can I get some service here, Garcon?*_

“Patience, dear,” Picard said gently, as if to a beloved child. “Anyone would think that you hadn’t been fed in days instead of hours.”

 _*Well, it feels like days to my stomach!*_ Isis informed him. She sat down by her food bowl and kept looking at him expectantly.

He chuckled as he got out a can of Friskies chicken with gravy. After setting the can on the counter, he picked up both bowls, gave them a quick rinse in the sink and filled one with fresh water. He put that one down by Isis, who immediately took a few sips to clear her palate. He then opened the can and carefully spooned half the contents into the other purple bowl. Getting out a plastic can lid from the utensils drawer, he put it on the can and then brought the bowl over to Isis, who fell upon it as soon as he set it on the floor. As he was putting the cat food can into the fridge, he heard the buzzer from the lobby. Striding over to the intercom, he pressed the button and said, “Yes, who is it?”

“Is this Jean-Luc Picard?” asked a strange man’s voice, with a distinct British accent, over the speaker.

“Yes, it is.”

“Good evening, Jean-Luc. My name is Father Malcolm McKenzie. I would like to talk to you about your laicization.”

Picard suddenly felt very cold inside. It was the same sensation he had gotten over two years ago, when he was warned by the Catholic Diocese of Brooklyn to stop making inquiries about his new pastor, Father Anthony Romano, after he had been transferred to Saint Joseph’s parish upon the death of their old pastor. Father Romano was now serving a jail sentence in New York for child molestation and embezzlement. He was tempted to tell Father McKenzie that he had company tonight and no time to talk. But Q wasn’t home yet, and the friends who were coming over to celebrate his birthday with them wouldn’t be here until seven. He looked at the clock in the foyer; it said 5:56 p.m. That gave him at least an hour to speak to the good father, whom he was sure was not here to give him good news. So, resigning himself to his fate, he said into the intercom, “All right, I have a few minutes before dinner is ready. Do come up.” He pressed the buzzer to admit him.

By the time the doorbell rang, he had put the birthday cake in the fridge and set the table, hoping that the visitor would not expect to join them for dinner. He went to open the door while Isis hid herself in the unlit bathroom on the right, to check out whoever was at the door.

A peep through the keyhole revealed a glimpse of the visitor; a white-haired man of mature years with a craggy face and a pleasant smile. When he opened the door, he saw that Father McKenzie was wearing a black overcoat and black gloves. “Hello, Jean-Luc,” he said pleasantly, holding out one gloved hand. “I’m so glad you could spare me some time tonight. I’m here on official business for the church.”

“Yes, I rather thought you were,” he said as he shook McKenzie’s hand. “Do come in and sit down.” When McKenzie entered and took off his coat, he saw that he was wearing a black clerical suit with a white Roman collar. There was no insignia on the jacket to indicate what branch of the church he was working for. While Picard hung up his coat on the coat tree by the bathroom, Isis gave the visitor the once-over. She knew at once that she didn’t like him; there was something secretive about him, something dark and dangerous. His manner was friendly, but the light behind his bright blue eyes was a little too bright.

 _*He has the eyes of a fanatic,*_ Isis realized, a shiver going through her furry frame which made the hair on her neck and back stand on end, while her tail puffed out until it was as thick as a brush. _*He’s here to make trouble for Jean-Luc, who used to be a priest. I’ll bet he wants him to go back to the priesthood. Well, he can’t have him! He belongs to us now!*_ A growl escaped her as she lashed her tail back and forth, her eyes glowing green in the dark. _*Daddy Q and I are not giving him up without a fight!*_

Picard led the priest into the living room, both men chatting about inconsequential things. He invited him to sit on the brown couch on the left side of the room, while he sat in the beige armchair on the right by the bookcase. When they were both settled, with the coffee table between them, he asked cordially, “May I offer you a drink, Father?”

“No, thank you,” McKenzie said with a smile. “I have to drive back to my hotel.”

“Coffee or tea, then?”

“No, thank you. I’d prefer to get right down to business, if I may.” He closed his eyes and took a deep breath, then let it out with a sigh. He then bowed his head over his folded hands in silent prayer. Picard waited patiently for him to finish, silently asking God to help him be as eloquent in his own defense as McKenzie would no doubt be in his attack. 

When McKenzie opened his eyes again, he smiled at Picard, his lined face giving him an appearance of benevolence and aged wisdom. Picard wasn’t fooled; he knew what was coming and braced himself for it. “So, Jean-Luc,” McKenzie began, looking him in the face while rubbing his hands against his black-trousered thighs, “it’s been a year since you’ve left New York, as well as the priesthood. How has your life been since these events?”

“My life is fine, thank you,” he told him politely. “I believe I’ve adjusted to secular life well.”

“You still practice your faith, I hope?” said McKenzie, looking concerned.

“Of course; I attend church every Sunday and most holy days, when I’m not working at Saint John’s Community Center.”

“I see. And does your—” McKenzie paused before continuing. “Does Mr. Quilleran also attend services?”

“No, I’m afraid I’ve had no success in persuading Q to accompany me to church. He has as much use for religion as our cat does.” He smiled as he saw the little black face peeking round the corner at the visitor, pointy ear tips twitching. “But he doesn’t try to keep me from going to church. He knows how much it means to me.”

“I should hope he does! Does he know exactly what you gave up for him? Does he appreciate your sacrifice?”

“I didn’t do it just for him, Father,” Picard demurred. “There was a principal to be upheld. Namely, my protest against the church’s policy towards sinful priests who abuse young people.”

“Yes, yes, that was heroic of you, to try to alert church authorities about Romano. How unfortunate that they didn’t listen,” McKenzie sighed tragically.

“Not only did they refuse to listen to my concerns, but they threatened to have me disciplined for bringing the matter up,” Picard reminded him.

“That was unfortunate,” McKenzie murmured, regarding him with what appeared to be genuine sympathy. “But was it really necessary for you to leave the priesthood in protest? Even after he had been arrested?”

“I could not remain a priest in good conscience, knowing what I knew about Romano. There was also the matter of my own homosexuality. I knew very well that it would be used against me, if I testified against Romano in a church hearing.”

“Ah, yes, you were in a relationship with Mr. Quilleran at the time, were you not?” McKenzie said casually while regarding him closely through hooded eyes.

“We were friends, not lovers,” Picard clarified for him. “I did not break my vow of celibacy with him while I was at Saint Joseph’s. Even after I left Saint Joseph’s to live with my friends, Will and Deanna Riker, at their shelter for street kids, my relationship with Q remained platonic until I was officially released from my vows.”

“And you came to live with him here in Boston. Was that his idea or yours?”

“Well, he asked me to marry him when I was freed from my vows. And Massachusetts was the only place where we could get married legally at the time. Had I only known that New York would legalize same sex marriage too, I might have remained there.”

“Yes, New York now permits same sex marriage too,” McKenzie said, though he didn’t look too happy about it. “But you still miss New York, do you not?”

“Yes, every now and then I do get nostalgic for it. But I still keep in touch with my friends, via email and phone.”

“Does Mr. Quilleran ever complain about the size of the phone bill?” McKenzie asked innocently, while still regarding him slyly through hooded eyes. Picard thought he looked like a cat at a mouse hole, ready to pounce at the first opportunity. 

“No, as a matter of fact he gave me a cell phone as a wedding present, so I could keep in touch with everybody in New York. I’ve never had one before. It was quite a surprise.”

“I’m sure it was,” McKenzie said politely, but with a distinct note of disappointment in his cultured voice.

 _*He’s trying to see if I’m unhappy enough with the life I’ve chosen to be lured back to New York and my former life,*_ Picard thought shrewdly, as he leaned back in the chair and put his feet up on the ottoman. _*Now how can I persuade him that he’s wasting his time?*_

While he was thinking of what to say, Isis came into the living room. Ignoring the visitor, she went right up to the easy chair where Picard sat and mewed at him to get his attention. “Yes, Isis,” he said fondly, looking down at her over the arm of the chair. “Did you want something, dear?”

She jumped up on the chair arm and rubbed her sleek black head against his shoulder, purring up a storm. “Yes, yes, you’re a good girl,” he told her as he stroked her. “Such a pretty girl, too.” He looked up at McKenzie and said, “This is Isis, our cat. I do hope you’re not afraid of cats.”

“Not at all. She’s a lovely little thing, isn’t she?” McKenzie smiled at the little black cat as she stretched out on the chair’s arm so she could enjoy a good scratch between her ears. Her eyes were closed as she purred contentedly, front paws crossed over each other like folded hands.    

Suddenly the kitchen timer went off. Isis jumped at the ringing sound, then settled down again when Picard stroked her. “There, there, Isis. It’s only the timer.” He looked at McKenzie again and said, “Excuse me, I have to check on dinner. I hope you don’t mind talking to Isis while I’m gone.”      

McKenzie laughed. “No, I don’t mind. I’m rather fond of cats myself.” He watched Picard as he walked into the kitchen to check the crockpot, his bright blue eyes becoming hooded again. He didn’t look so friendly now. In fact, he looked downright predatory to Isis, like a vulture waiting for its intended victim to founder. She, in turn, studied him, her golden yellow eyes narrowed to slits as she sat in sphinx position, head up, front paws planted firmly in front of her.

“Hello, Isis,” McKenzie addressed her softly. “Like what you see? 

She growled softly as she lashed her tail back and forth. _*No, I don’t!*_ she informed him, not taking her eyes off of him. _*I don’t like you at all. You look too much like a cat yourself. The kind that likes to play with its prey until it’s too weak to run away.*_ Isis herself believed in finishing the prey off quickly, after subduing its struggles.

“My, you’re a talkative little thing,” McKenzie remarked, keeping his voice low. “Good thing you can’t speak English. I’m sure you wouldn’t have anything nice to say to me, after I told you that I was here to take Jean-Luc back into the priesthood.”

 _*Oh, yeah?*_ The fur on Isis’ back bristled as she hissed. _*Go ahead and try, buster!*_

“Yes, I intend to,” McKenzie said, making her eyes open wide as she realized he understood her. “One way or another, I will return this stray sheep to the fold. That is my duty, to my church and to my God, and no one is going to stand in my way.”

Isis let out a long, venomous hiss as she sank her claws into the chair arm, glaring at him with blazing yellow eyes. * _You’re evil! You think you’re doing your god’s will, but you’re just as big a predator as I am! But it’s not mice you’re playing with, it’s human lives! And I’ll bet you love your job, don’t you?*_

McKenzie chuckled in a way that sent chills down her spine. “Yes, I love my job,” he admitted softly. “It gives me great pleasure to catch strays and herd them back into the arms of Mother Church. And she rewards me so generously, by overlooking my own unfortunate past.”

 _*I’ll bet she does!*_ Isis growled, eyeing him with contempt. _“Just as she’s willing to overlook the pasts of all those nasty priests who abuse children, by shuffling them around to other parishes where they can find fresh game!*_

“Oh, I have nothing to do with _those_ kind of priests,” he assured her. “I wouldn’t be here if Jean-Luc was that kind of priest. In fact, it’s because he was such a good priest, and such a good man overall, that I was sent here.”

 _*Why don’t you leave him alone? You can see how happy he is with us!*_ Isis told him in a low, rumbling tone as she sunk her claws deeper into the chair arm, to keep from launching herself through the air to sink her claws into his face. _*Go find yourself another former priest who never adjusted to civilian life! That’s the kind you should be hunting, the ones who don’t fit in with everyday people. Jean-Luc is happy. So why don’t you leave him alone?*_

“Poor little pussy, you don’t understand church politics,” McKenzie said kindly, in a condescending tone that made her bristle. “The Catholic Church needs as many good priests and nuns as it can get. That’s why it’s so important to separate the sheep from the goats, so we will be ready for the final battle between the Host of Heaven and the Horde of Hell. Because the only thing necessary for the final triumph of Satan and his evil is for good men and women to do nothing.” 

Before Isis could protest that Jean-Luc wasn’t doing nothing, that he was still doing good even as a layman, the man himself returned from the kitchen. “Will you be staying for dinner, Father McKenzie?” he asked, out of politeness, hoping the answer would be no. “It’s Q’s birthday, and we have a few friends coming over as well. 

“Oh, I wouldn’t dream of intruding on your personal time together,” McKenzie assured him, keeping to himself the thought that they didn’t have much time left together. “The church just wanted to be sure that you had made the right choice.”

“Well, you can tell whoever sent you that I don’t regret my choice. Only the necessity that forced me to make it."

“Yes, we must all bow to necessity, sooner or later,” McKenzie murmured as he rose to his feet, smiling. To Isis he looked like a hungry cat, eagerly awaiting his chance to bring his paw down on this unwary mouse. “I only hope you don’t come to regret your decision in the future.”

Before Picard could think of a response, they both heard the sound of a key turning in the lock and the apartment door opening. Isis mewed happily, as she realized that Daddy Q was home. Moments later he appeared, walking into the living room shucking his red parka and yawning loudly. “Hello, my love, I’m exhausted!” he greeted his husband. “What’s for dinner? Smells good, hope there’s enough to go around. The Mighty Quinn and his wife are right behind me. So is Roberta. Did you get the cake and—” He stopped talking as he realized that he and Picard were not alone. A white-haired priest clad all in black stood in his living room, hands clasped before him, lips pressed together in a straight line as he looked at Quilleran with an air of disapproval.

Quilleran stared back at him with an unmistakably hostile air. Before he could blurt out something rude, which he usually did when confronting an authority figure, Picard stepped in hastily to introduce them. “I’m glad you’re home, _mon cher_. This is Father McKenzie. He was paying me a visit on behalf of the church authorities to see how I’ve adjusted to being a layman.”

“Oh, really?” said Quilleran, throwing his coat on the couch as he usually did, eying the older man defiantly. “Well, I hope you told him about all the fun we’ve been having together, as well as all the work you’re doing at Saint John’s Community Center. I must say, I like the new pastor better than the old one. The one who wouldn’t let me have my first husband’s funeral there, because of his ‘notorious lifestyle' " he quoted sarcastically.

“Father Jerome was just following church policy, Mr. Quilleran,” McKenzie told him, politely but coldly. “I do regret the pain it caused you, not being able to bury your companion with the blessing of the church. But I’m sure you understand why it wouldn’t do for us to allow a known homosexual to be given a funeral mass in a Catholic church. It would appear as if we were giving approval to his lifestyle, which the church is morally opposed to.”

“Yes, I’m sure it would have been embarrassing to let an openly gay man be buried by your church. Especially since it was going to so much trouble to hide the sins of pedophilic priests, who corrupt young people by seducing them into their lifestyle. Exactly what you accuse gays of doing.” 

Picard sighed and shook his head at his husband’s outspokenness, while McKenzie’s pale face went red with anger. “We do not hide the sins of our priests, Mr. Quilleran,” McKenzie informed him brusquely. “We simply remove them from harm’s way, and the temptations that may be there, and relocate them where they will do the least amount of harm as they attempt to reform themselves.”

“Oh, is that how you describe it? Funny, I thought you were more concerned with the church’s image than with the safety of the young people in your parishes. By the way, Gary Seven was not my companion, he was my husband. He was also a devout Catholic, who somehow managed to make peace with himself as a gay man, as well as with the church he loved, who hated what he was.”

“The church does not hate gay people,” McKenzie insisted. “Contrary to popular belief, we do not believe that it is a sin just to be homosexual. Only to engage in homosexual behavior, which is a sin against God and Nature, since it bypasses God’s plan for natural reproduction.”

“You mean like straight married people using birth control?” Quilleran asked innocently.                      

“Yes, well, we don’t approve of that either!” McKenzie said quickly.

“It’s a good thing I’m not Catholic, then. Because I don’t need your approval of my lifestyle. And neither does he.   Do you, my love?” He looked at his husband across the room.

Picard sighed. “As much as I love you, _mon cher_ , and our life together, I can’t help but wish that the church I love would someday approve of our relationship.”

“You know that’s not going to happen in our lifetime.”

Picard gave a very Gallic shrug. “Well, I can dream, can’t I?” Turning to McKenzie he said politely, “I apologize for the frankness of our conversation, Father. It was not my intention to upset or insult you.”

“No, that was _my_ intention!” said Quilleran, smiling like a naughty boy who left a tack on the teacher’s chair and just saw him jump out of it.

His husband gave him a pained look. “If you would be good enough to apologize to Father McKenzie before he leaves—”

“Why should I?” Quilleran demanded. “He came here uninvited on _my_ birthday, to question _my_ husband about our life together, raking up things from our past that we both would prefer to forget—or did he somehow manage to avoid talking about Father Romano?” Picard shook his head. “No? I didn’t think so. And now you expect _me_ to apologize to _him_? Please, Jean-Luc! You know I’m not into turning the other cheek. Except in bed.” He smiled shamelessly as he eyed McKenzie to see if his remark offended him.

But McKenzie refused to rise to the bait. He just gave him a disgusted look as he walked past him in dignified silence. Picard followed him to the door, while Isis mewed from the armchair, _*Good riddance!*_ Quilleran followed them both to make sure that McKenzie left.

He got to the door in time to see McKenzie shrugging into his black overcoat as he regarded Picard with both sorrow and pity. “If this is the life you have chosen, my son, then I pity you,” he said. “The church will never give its blessing to such a union, even if the state does so. You would do better to return to the church and let this godless heathen,” he stared contemptuously at Quilleran, “spend the rest of his life alone, slaking his unnatural lusts with others of his kind.”

“So much for Christian charity and forgiveness,” Quilleran sneered. “Don’t go away mad, Father, just go!”

McKenzie, already halfway out the door, stopped and turned to glare at him. “You haven’t seen the last of me, Quilleran!” he snapped. “I’m going to do my best to make sure that you see the last of _him_!” He jerked his white head in Picard’s direction before slamming the door behind him, leaving Picard with such a worried expression that Quilleran had to take him into his arms and comfort him. As they stood there holding one another in the dimly lit foyer, Quilleran could feel his beloved trembling in his arms, from nervousness or fear. He spoke soothingly to him, stroking his back comfortingly, as he silently cursed McKenzie for upsetting him.

While they stood there in each other’s arms, there came a knock on the door. Quilleran’s head came up like a dog smelling an intruder; he held his beloved close while he checked the peephole to see whether that pestilent priest had come back. Seeing a plump, pink face with worried blue eyes looking back at him made him heave a sigh of relief.  “Hello, Quinn,” he said to his friend and boss as he opened the apartment door. “Hello, Kathryn,” he said to his friend’s wife, standing behind him with a gift-wrapped box in her hands. “Please come in. We could use a bit of good cheer from good friends.”

“Hey, Q, what’s up with you and the Catholic Church now?” Quinn asked as he and his auburn-haired wife entered, both looking a bit shaken. “We just passed a priest in the hallway, coming out of your apartment with a face that would turn milk to yogurt. He almost knocked my wife down! Of course he apologized, but the way he looked while he said it made me want to grab her and shield her from him, like he was a vampire.”

“I didn’t like his looks either,” Kathryn admitted. “But I thought he was having a bad night. If he was talking to you a few minutes ago, I’m sure he must have been.”

Quilleran laughed sardonically while keeping a protective arm wrapped around his slightly shorter husband. Picard looked so worried that Kathryn had to ask him if something was wrong, while Quinn eyed his good friend and star reporter with misgiving. They were still explaining what had happened before their friends' arrival when Roberta Lincoln knocked on the apartment door, with a shopping bag full of goodies for her boss and his cat.

********

It took a while for everyone to recover from Father McKenzie’s influence. Even Roberta, who had only passed him in the lobby on her way up, remarked that seeing the white-haired, craggy-faced priest coming out of the elevator like a charging bull had been enough to make her duck to one side to avoid a collision, murmuring “Excuse me, Father,” apologetically as he brushed past her with a scowl. Quilleran made drinks for everyone, a little stronger than usual, “to wash the taste of righteousness out of our mouths,” he explained as he passed around the glasses.

Quinn enjoyed his double scotch on the rocks; his wife preferred her usual Kahlua with milk, made with a double shot of the coffee liqueur. Roberta settled for a glass of the same sweet, red, chilled French wine that Picard was drinking. Quilleran had scotch too, without his usual cola mixer. By the time they had finished their drinks, everybody was cheerful again, discussing the news of the day, teasing Quilleran about his age, admiring Isis while she played with the new toys Roberta had brought her, urging Quilleran to open their presents to him and laughing aloud at his reaction to them.

Picard served dinner while his husband was modeling Kathryn’s gift to him, a gray sweatshirt with a picture of a colorfully embroidered pillow on a couch that said “If you can’t say anything nice about anyone, come over here and sit by me!”, in an old-fashioned script. “It’s you, darling, it’s you!” Quinn declared in an effeminate voice, waving a limp-wristed hand at him as he raised what was left of his drink in a toast.

“Yes, it is,” Quilleran agreed. “It’s scary how well you know me, Kathryn.”

“Well enough not to waste my time trying to curry favor with you by bribing your cat,” Kathryn said, smiling at Roberta as she knelt on the rug rolling a little ball with a toy hamster inside for Isis to chase.

“Hey, I have to stay on her good side,” remarked the younger woman from her knees beside the couch. “I’m the one who has to take care of her while Q’s out of town.”

“Not so much nowadays, my dear,” Picard reminded her as he passed the living room entrance with a blue soup tureen filled with the cassoulet. He put it in the center of the round table in the tiny dining alcove between the kitchen and the living room, with a green salad on one side and a round cutting board on the other holding a round, crusty loaf of bread. “I’ve taken over cat sitting duties whenever he’s out of town.”

“Yeah, but I still have to take care of Miss Thing here whenever you guys go away for the weekend.”

“We don’t go away every weekend,” Quilleran protested as he put aside the box of chocolate-covered pretzels Quinn had given him, after sneaking a bite of one and then stuffing the rest of it into his mouth. “Only on holiday weekends, or whenever I think it’s safe to take Jean-Luc along on an assignment.”

“I appreciate it, _mon cher,”_ said Picard as he started herding people toward the table before Quilleran could suggest another round of drinks. “Especially that interview with the new tenor of the Boston Opera Company. But don’t you think it was in questionable taste for a gay couple to attend a banquet in honor of Archbishop Sean O’Malley?”

“Why not? You’re still a Catholic in good standing, and I’m a respectable member of the press.” This remark was greeted by a round of coughing and throat clearing from their friends, which he chose to ignore. “I only wanted to ask His Eminence what he was doing about the problem of the sex abuse scandal in the church, since his predecessor left in such a hurry.”

“We almost had to leave in a hurry too, when His Eminence’s bodyguards took exception to the questions you were asking,” Picard told him as their guests circled the dining table.

“Sure wish I could have been there to see that!” Quinn said with a grin as he took his seat next to his wife.

“I’ll bet your departure wasn’t as dignified as Cardinal Law’s was,” Kathryn added, referring to Cardinal Bernard Francis Law, who was forced to resign at the height of the sexual abuse scandal back in 2002.

The cassoulet went over very well. Nobody seemed to notice that they were technically eating leftovers. Neither Picard nor Quilleran volunteered any information about the recipe; they just enjoyed the meal and graciously accepted the compliments of their hungry friends. The salad was also well received, along with the fresh, crusty bread, with Quinn and Quilleran slathering it with butter. The women were watching their weight and Picard preferred unbuttered bread. Isis kept winding herself around peoples' ankles beneath the table, mewing pitifully until someone slipped her a piece of sausage or chicken. Afterwards, Roberta helped to clear the table while Picard got out the birthday cake and Kathryn laid out the cake plates and clean forks. 

Quinn looked disappointed when Picard produced two colorful candles shaped like a “5” and a “4”. “You couldn't find a cake big enough for all the candles?” he asked.

“We couldn't allow you to eat that much cake,” Quilleran told him with fake solicitude. “Poor Kathryn already has to climb on top of you like Mount Everest. If you get any fatter, she's going to slide right off.”

Roberta giggled. Kathryn made no attempt to defend her husband by denying his rotundity; she just smiled beatifically while Quinn said indignantly, “I'm not fat! I'm just stocky!” 

“Yeah, right. And milk is just a little white.” Quilleran got up to fix more drinks as his husband lit the candles. The light of the tiny flames reflected off the shiny surface of the dark chocolate icing.

“Is the cake chocolate too?” Roberta asked hopefully.

“No, it's yellow with lemon custard filling,” Picard told her.

“I like the cherries and berries on top,” she said, admiring the circle of glazed fruit around the cake's rim. “Is that pineapple in the middle?”

“No, that's banana. The green slices are kiwi.” Round, green slices of glazed kiwi adorned the wide, yellow circle of glazed banana in the center.

“It looks like they emptied a bowl of fruit salad on top. If that's not a healthy cake, I don't know what is,” Quinn said.

“It would be healthier without that sugary glaze on the fruit,” his wife commented.

“Ah, you say that about my favorite doughnuts too,” Quinn complained. Quilleran served him his drink at that point, so he couldn't make any more complaints about his diet.

As soon as everyone else got their drinks, they raised them and sang “Happy Birthday” to a self-conscious Quilleran, who kept staring at the numeral candles as if he couldn't believe he was that old. When they started urging him to make a wish, he looked right at Jean-Luc, who was smiling at him from across the table. He smiled back as he thought, _*I already got my wish last year. All I want now is a lot of anniversaries with him, which I never got with Gary.*_ He took a breath and blew out all the candles to a round of applause.  

After half the cake had been eaten and the leftovers put away, all the guests departed together to share a cab Quinn had phoned for during the cleanup. Before she left, Roberta unrolled the doormat that had been her present to Quilleran and put it in front of the door, so that it would be the first thing people saw when they entered. It said “One Nice Person and one Old Grouch live here”. 

“Thanks, Roberta,” Quilleran said, looking anything but grateful as he eyed the doormat.

“I think it's quite appropriate,” Kathryn remarked, her brown eyes as mischievous as a little girl's.

“Did she help you pick it out?” Quilleran asked his assistant suspiciously. Roberta shook her honey-blonde head and giggled.

“I'm sure my wife influenced her in her choice of gift. Then again, you've been a bad influence on people since you learned to talk, buddy,” Quinn informed him.

“Ah, go home and exercise, you fat bastard!” Quilleran told him.

“Oh, I'll be getting plenty of exercise tonight,” Quinn told him, leering at his pretty wife, who laughed. “I'll bet you will be too. Take it easy on him, Jean-Luc, remember he's no kid anymore.”

“Neither am I. Good night, Gerald. Kathryn, always a pleasure. You too, Roberta.” He shook Quinn's hand and kissed the ladies' hands as they left, much to their delight. As soon as all the guests were gone, he turned to his husband and kissed him too.

Quilleran kissed him with gusto and led him to the bedroom in back of the apartment. “Are you sure you wouldn't rather return to the church, and let me slake my unnatural lust with others of my kind?” he teased him.

“After all that the church has done to me, she should be grateful that I'm still a Catholic."

“I wish you had said that to that miserable priest while he was here.”

“Father McKenzie is a career priest, which means he'll always put the welfare of the church before his own, or anyone else's.” Picard looked intently at his husband as they got ready for bed. “Be careful, _mon cher_. He meant what he said when he warned you that you'd be seeing him again.”

“Good! I like a man who keeps his word. But before we meet again, I intend to do a little research on the good Father McKenzie. See if he's as good as he seems to be, or too good to be true.”

“If he was part of the disciplinary committee responsible for removing those abusive priests here in Boston, it would explain why he's so hostile to homosexuals in general,” Picard told him as he pulled down the green chenille bedspread.

“Mmph! I'll bet his hostility verges on envy. You know, like some of those priests in the Dark Ages who were so gung-ho about hunting witches.” Quilleran took off his new sweatshirt as he spoke, followed by the shirt underneath. “Sometimes the women that they accused were local beauties with a reputation for unchaste behavior. And sometimes the priests in question would proposition the ladies, offering them their freedom in return for a taste of their wares.”

“And prosecute the ones who said no. Yes, it has been known to happen.” After plumping the green pillows and turning down the green top sheet, Picard took off his favorite turquoise sweater and hung it up neatly in the closet they shared.

“I think I'll check with the Boston Archdiocese to see whether McKenzie was part of the committee investigating those abusive priests. And then I'll dig a little deeper, to see what his own past will reveal.” Quilleran smiled as he pulled his pants off, looking forward to digging up dirt about McKenzie. He was too cynical to believe that there might not be any dirt to dig up; in his experience, the most righteous people usually had the most to hide.    

“Just be careful, _mon cher._ Your last encounter with a corrupt priest nearly undid us both,” Picard reminded him, referring to the despicable Father Romano. He had fooled Quilleran into believing that Picard was dead when the reporter had failed to find him at Saint Joseph's Haven after the swine flu epidemic had swept through it, leaving several priests dead, along with the homeless they tended.

“Don't worry, I won't get fooled again. If he tries to do anything to you, I'll put you on ice. Even if I have to hide you among the Hasidic community.”

Picard laughed. “Remember that they share the Catholic Church's view of gays.”

“Yes, but do you remember that they have a thriving gay underground? With a safe house for gay Hasidic youth to meet, or to go to if their parents throw them out?” He lowered the lights with the dimmer switch and began rummaging through his bedside table. “The young rabbi I interviewed for that article owes me a favor. I'm sure he wouldn't mind having you for a guest, if worse comes to worse.”

“I've dealt with hostile church authorities before. But I will do my best to avoid getting caught in McKenzie's net.”

“See that you do. If I have to come after you, it's not going to be pretty. More than stained glass windows will be broken if anything or anybody comes between me and you, _capich_?” He looked at him with a determination in his dark eyes that warned him there would be hell to pay if the Catholic Church tried to separate them.

“Yes, Q. Now come to bed, will you?” A naked Picard lay down upon the green sheets, propped up by pillows. He didn't bother to cover himself, despite the slight chill in the room. “I still haven't given you my birthday present.”

“Ooh, that's right.” A grinning Quilleran pulled out a tube of lubricant and a bottle of scented massage oil from his bedside table's drawer. Laying these neatly atop a small yellow towel, he climbed into bed beside his beloved. Soon they were both too preoccupied to worry about McKenzie or the church.


	2. Chapter 2

"THE BAD SHEPHERD"

CHAPTER 2 of 15

_“With your arms around the future_  
_and your back up against the past...”_  
“The Voice” by The Moody Blues, 1981

WEDNESDAY, 6:00 a.m., MARCH 21st, 2012

Waking up in the morning next to his husband gave Quilleran a strong sensation of _deja vu_. Seeing Jean-Luc sleeping beside him so peacefully reminded him of the first time they had shared a bed together. This bed, in fact. There had been no hankie-pankie between them during the time that they waited for him to be released from his vows as a priest. Quilleran had been a frequent visitor to New York, and Jean-Luc had always been the “plus one” on the many invitations he accepted to social events and press releases in that city. But despite all of Quilleran's efforts to seduce him, his frequent invitations to join him in his hotel room, or in the back seat of his black Impala, Jean-Luc had managed to remain celibate until he received the notice from the Archdiocese of New York on Wednesday, May 4th, 2011 (exactly thirteen months after Romano’s arrest) that he had been formally released from his vows, not just of poverty and obedience but of chastity as well. This last was very important, as he would not have been able to marry without it.

Once he was no longer a priest, he was free to leave New York with his beloved so that they could marry in Boston. After he had called Quilleran with the good news, the intrepid reporter had spent the rest of the week cleaning his apartment and shopping for food and gifts. He had then had gotten up early on Saturday May 7th to drive to New York, to claim his future husband. He remembered the tearful goodbyes from their friends at Under 18, the runaway kids' shelter where Jean-Luc had gone for refuge after leaving Saint Joseph's. He remembered the long drive from New York to Boston, the first half spent talking about their future together, the second half in companionable silence.

Upon their arrival in Boston that evening, they'd gone upstairs together to Quilleran's apartment, Jean-Luc carrying only one suitcase of all the belongings he had left his order with. He'd given away quite a few articles of clothing in order to make room for the ones Quilleran had given him as gifts. Even then, that old suitcase had still been pretty light. When they got upstairs, Quilleran had allowed him to enter first, restraining his desire to pick him up and carry him over the threshold. He knew that his beloved was too independent to appreciate this romantic gesture. But there was still one more hurtle they had to cross before they could get married. When they were both inside, they found Isis lying on the back of the easy chair that had once been Gary's, eyeing them both uncertainly. Quilleran had introduced her to Jean-Luc and stood back to watch. To his relief, she had allowed Jean-Luc to stroke her after a tentative sniff of his hand. “That's a relief,” he told him. “I was afraid that I wouldn't be allowed to keep you.”

“Oh, really?” Jean-Luc looked at him suspiciously as he stroked the cat's silky fur. “Do you mean to say that you would have been forced to choose between me and the cat?”

“Let's just say that one of you would have had to go. And I don't intend to drive all the way back to New York tonight!” he loudly informed Isis.

_*You could always give him plane fare,*_   Isis replied, swishing her long, black tail saucily across the chair back as she closed her eyes to enjoy the scratching Jean-Luc was giving her between her ears. _*You're lucky he gives good scratches. He smells nice too. Like someone who genuinely loves animals. Unlike some of the guys you've brought home since Gary died.*_ She savored the memory of one such unfortunate, who had screeched like a mouse being killed as she scratched him for petting her as roughly as a dog.

“Well, now that you've won the approval of my stepdaughter, we'll just have to see how we get on together before we apply for the marriage license.”

“I have no objection to living with you before we're married. But how long do you intend to wait before applying for the license?”

“Let's see, today is Saturday. Do you think you'll be ready by Monday?”

“So soon? I guess you do have honorable intentions towards me.”

“Yes, eventually.” He closed the distance between them in one stride and was soon kissing him heartily. Even Isis' scornful suggestion that they get a room wasn't enough to stop him.

Their first night together had been tender and loving and full of surprises. The first had been finding out that Jean-Luc was still a virgin, despite his previous relationship with Chief Petty Officer Miles O'Brien while they were both in the Royal Navy during the Falklands War. Apparently they had never gone any further than mutual masturbation, oral sex, and frottage, as well as intercrural sex, which involved rubbing your cock between someone’s thighs. Quilleran was familiar with all these practices, but he was used to thinking of them as foreplay. So he was surprised to find himself lying between his beloved’s legs, sweaty and spent, more than an hour later. Much later, while they lay side by side wrapped in Quilleran's favorite green quilt, he asked him, “Is that all that you and Miles did together?”

"Oh, yes. Miles used to tease me about saving myself for our wedding night. But the truth was that we so seldom had any time alone together. Even when we managed to rent a hotel room while we were on leave, we were both so tired and stressed out that all we wanted to do was sleep through the night, without worrying about reville, or turning out in the middle of the night because of a surprise attack. So we settled for stroking and sucking each other, along with rubbing. It was quick and easy, and allowed us both to get off. Afterwards we would eat takeout and watch a bit of telly in bed together before going to sleep."

Quilleran had patted his beloved's bare behind lovingly as they lay in bed together. "Well, I don't want to do anything you're not used to before you're ready. So we'll save the big secret for our wedding night. What kind of takeout did you usually eat afterwards?"

"After a year of courtship, you still don't know?" Jean-Luc had smiled tenderly as he lay comfortably beside him. "While we were in British territory, we had fish and chips or meat pies. When we were in Asian territory, we had Chinese food. By the way, I prefer the Chinese black bean sauce to the black bean soup they make it in the Falklands. Those bloody Spanish can't hold a candle to the Chinese when it comes to cooking."

Quilleran had agreed with him and gone to the kitchen to grab a takeout menu from his favorite Chinese restaurant off the fridge. After some discussion, they had settled on beef curry and chicken with black bean sauce, with wonton soup and egg rolls, and had spent the rest of the night in bed together, eating and watching TV. Their wedding reception on Saturday, June 18th had been a bit more lavish, but the caterer had been Chinese, and everyone invited, even the guests from New York, had eaten until they were stuffed.

Returning to the present, Quilleran slipped out of bed and into the bathroom to get ready for the day as quietly as possible. But as usual, by the time he got out of the shower he found his beloved in the kitchen, already washed and shaved, with half a pot of coffee for Quilleran and a small pot of Earl Grey tea for himself. Breakfast was ham and eggs sunny side up for Quilleran, while his husband had soft-boiled eggs with toast, which he used to mop up the gooey yellow remains in his bowl. Quilleran enjoyed the orange marmalade on his toast, which he'd never been into until Jean-Luc had come to live here. While they were eating, he had another flash of _deja vu_ , which he couldn't resist sharing with his husband.

"You know what this reminds me of?" he asked, pouring himself a second cup of coffee to wash down his toast with. "A breakfast I had with Gary, shortly before he was murdered."

"Well, I hope it's a happy memory," Picard murmured over his cup of Earl Grey.

"No, no, we didn't argue or fight. In fact, the memory of that breakfast helped me to solve the mystery of his murder."

"Really? And how was that?" Picard was curious about his predecessor and how he had been able to make his beloved happy before they had met.

"He was sitting where you are now, and we were eating eggs, bacon and hash browns that he had made, talking about a story that he was working on, about a prominent local businessman who had been murdered..."

********

FRIDAY, 7:49 a.m., SEPTEMBER 9TH, 2005

Gary Seven was smiling as he held out an artificial flower to his husband across the round dining table. "Go ahead, look at it," he urged him.

A curious Quilleran took the flower from his hand and studied it closely. It was the same size as a pen, with a head full of silky white petals and a bright, yellow stamen. It had four saw-toothed green leaves, two on each side of its green body, and looked like any other artificial flower Quilleran had ever seen. "Notice anything different?" Gary asked him eagerly.

"Well, it is pretty, Gary," he said cautiously, not wanting to hurt his feelings. "But I really don't see what use it can be to you in your work, unless there's a pen hidden inside it. Or does it squirt water?" He held it away from himself cautiously, just in case. He knew that his husband had a boyish sense of humor that frequently involved novelty shop pranks, like whoopie cushions and fake dog doo-doo.

Gary laughed. "No, it's more subtle than that. Can you see it yet?"

"No, I don't. Sorry, love. You'll have to show me why this fake flower is different from other fake flowers."

"Okay, I'll show you." Gary took the flower back and fiddled with it for a moment, then held it out to him again with a mischievous smile and said, "Listen!"

The next thing Quilleran heard was Gary's voice coming from the daisy's head, "Notice anything different?", followed by his own voice saying, "Well, it is pretty, Gary. But I really don't see what use it can be to you in your work..."

Gary laughed out loud at his husband's astonished face. "Now do you see the difference? It's a recording device! I got it in Washington D.C., during my last assignment there, before I met you. They've got a little shop there called The Spy Shop and it's filled with all kinds of gadgets like these, for people who like to play James Bond. Even real PI's go there to get things like this, to help them with their investigations. I usually tape my interviews, but I have to turn off the recorder when the subject asks me to. With this, I can keep on recording, to make sure that he or she can't sue me for libel by claiming that I misquoted them. It also covers my ass in case the subject threatens me for exercising my First Amendment rights. I can keep firing questions at them with this little cutie in my lapel while they're telling me what they really think of me."

"Not bad. I just hope you don't get in trouble for recording conversations without permission."

"I'm not a blackmailer, Q. I just like to keep the record straight, even if I'm not. Look, this is how it works." He showed him how each tiny switch on the stem was hidden by a leaf, which had to be pulled gently down to reveal the words Record, Stop, Rewind, and Fast Forward. It was powered by a single cell watch battery and could record up to an hour of sound. It could only be deleted by recording over the previous recording, but it came with three blank cassettes that could be reused or preserved. He showed him how to unscrew the flower recorder's head and remove the small, round cassette that fit inside the pen-sized body like a size AAA battery. After finishing breakfast, they stacked the dishes in the sink and put their coats on to leave for the newspaper together. Gary put the fake flower in his suit coat lapel, smiling as he told him who he intended to record with it.

"The twin brother of that businessman who was murdered by his wife has been very evasive. I can't help thinking that he knows more than he's letting on. So I'm going to have lunch with him and let him speak freely, off the record, while this little cutie gets it all on tape. People speak a lot more freely when they think they're not being recorded."

"Just be careful, Gary," Quilleran cautioned him, checking his own pockets for keys, wallet, cell phone, notepad and all the other incidentals he carried while working. "He's not as bad-tempered as his late brother was, but he could still get ugly if you make him mad enough."

"Don't worry, I'll be as sweet as pie to him. And even sweeter to the little confidential informant who's coming to see me after office hours."

"A CI? Which one?"

" _Cher-chez la femme, mon amour._ That's all that I can tell you right now." They made sure that Isis wasn't locked in the coat closet before they left for the day. When they got downstairs and to the car, it was Gary's turn to drive, so he slid behind the wheel while Quilleran rode shotgun. They drove to the paper in silence. Once they were parked outside The Boston Globe's office, Gary took him in his arms and kissed him goodbye, telling him gravely "I'm going to be late getting home tonight, but don't worry. My source insisted upon meeting me after office hours, so I told her to be there at 7:30. I promise I'll tell you everything afterwards. And if I don't, this will." He patted his lapel through the gray coat he wore. "I'll see you later tonight, Q. Love you."

"Love you too," Quilleran replied, giving him one more kiss. Then they both got out of the car and put on their professional personas, walking side by side into The Boston Globe building like any other pair of reporters.

********

Later that night, Quilleran looked up at the clock as he sat on the couch watching TV. It was 9:37 p.m. and Gary's share of dinner, fish sticks with macaroni and cheese, was in the microwave, waiting to be heated up when he got home. The police procedural show he was watching was a little too realistic for his taste. Having worked the crime beat on his paper made him a bit more knowledgeable about crime scene investigation than the general public. Even though the scriptwriters had toned it down for the aforementioned public, it still brought back too many memories of actual murders he had covered. He got up to make himself a drink, patting Isis as he passed her lying on the back of Gary's favorite easy chair near the bookcase. He wondered how much longer Gary was going to be at the office and when he was coming home. That's when the phone rang. When he answered it, his life changed forever.

"Q, this is Quinn." His editor's usual jovial voice sounded strained and worried. "Are you alone?"

"Yes and no. Gary's working late and I'm here with Isis. If you want to talk to him, try his number at The Globe."

An uneasy silence fell at the other end of the line, finally broken by Quinn clearing his throat and saying rather hoarsely, "I'm already at The Globe. So are the police. You'd better get over here quick, something's happened to Gary."

"What? What's happened to Gary?" Quilleran demanded. "Did that CI he was supposed to see turn violent?"

"So it was a CI," Quinn murmured to himself. Aloud he said, "We still don't know what happened. But you have to get over here quick."

"Why? Is Gary hurt?"

Another uneasy silence fell at the other end of the phone, lasting long enough to make Quilleran ask if he was still there. "Yes, I'm still here." Quinn sounded as if he was fighting back tears. "But Gary is dead."

"What?" Quilleran stood there with the phone receiver pressed to his ear, feeling as if he had been hit with a sledgehammer. "Quinn, did you just say that Gary is dead?"

"Yes, John, I'm sorry." Quinn was so upset, he wasn't calling Quilleran by his nickname. "Gary's been murdered. He was shot at his own desk. The cleaning lady found him and called 911. They're taking her statement now. Poor thing is so upset, she keeps babbling in Spanish. We need you here to translate and to identify Gary, as next of kin."

"Yes, I'll be there," he replied automatically, feeling as if his head and heart had suddenly become detached from each other. He hung up the phone without saying goodbye, got his coat from the closet and left the apartment, letting the door slam and lock itself behind him, leaving the TV on and Isis mewing forlornly; she had heard every word of his side of the conversation, and was now mourning her daddy.

When he got to The Boston Globe building, he found a couple of police cars parked outside, along with an ambulance. He had to show his newspaper ID in order to be admitted, after a quick call upstairs to verify that he had been sent for. A uniformed officer insisted upon accompanying him upstairs upon learning that he was the victim's next of kin. The ride up in the elevator seemed to take forever; he kept silent, staring straight ahead, not seeing the officer's sympathetic expression. When he got off the elevator, he found more cops milling around. The office looked as busy as it did during the day. His feet took him automatically to Gary's office, where he found Quinn talking to a detective.

"There you are, Q!" The chubby blond looked relieved to see him. He came forward and caught him by the arm as he was about to walk into the cubical where Gary worked. "Easy, Q! I want you to be ready to see him. Stay calm, keep your voice down, no tears, no hysterics. We've already had enough of that from Mrs. Martinez. She's the one who found him. I know you speak Spanish; none of the cops does except for Detective Arbuthnot here. He's already spoken to her, but she won't stop crying. I thought she might calm down if she saw a familiar face. You do know Arline Martinez, don't you?"

"Yes, of course," he said, remembering the little Mexican cleaning woman who always came in as he and Gary were on their way out. "Did she see who did it?"

"No, she heard two shots and came running to find Gary sitting behind his desk, dead. You'd better talk to her while she's still calm, she keeps crying on and off and I don't have the heart to slap her. Neither does Arbuthnot."

That's when Quilleran noticed the Boston P.D. detective standing behind Quinn, a tall, thin fellow in a beige trench coat, with graying blond hair and craggy features. He wore silver-rimmed spectacles which made his light blue eyes more prominent, and his thin, blond eyebrows were pinched together in a thoughtful frown as he regarded Quilleran. _*Probably wondering if I'm some hysterical queer who's going to shriek like a drama queen at the sight of Gary,*_   Quilleran thought dispassionately. He swallowed hard, gave himself a mental shake and braced himself for the worse. "I'll be okay, Quinn. Let me talk to Mrs. Martinez."

Quinn led him over to a cubicle where they had seated the crying cleaning woman, with a female uniformed officer who spoke comfortingly to her. As soon as she saw him, she started speaking rapidly, waving a soggy tissue around as she spoke. _"Ai, Senor! Senor! Tu marido estoy muerto!"_

_"Si, Senora, yo te oiego. Dega me que paso."_ He sat down in the other chair while the female officer stood protectively behind Mrs. Martinez, who told him in a mixed stream of Spanish and English what had happened.

"Like I told the _officeros_ when they came, I got here at my usual time, and found _Senor_ Gary at his desk still." Arline Martinez ran her fingers nervously through her hair, which was brown with blonde streaks. She was in her late forties, with almond-shaped brown eyes and light brown skin. Her left hand wore a plain gold wedding band, though her husband had died nine years ago, and a little gold crucifix on a thin gold chain hung from her neck, peeking out from the collar of the blue, short-sleeved blouse she had on beneath her grey cleaning uniform. "I say hello to him and ask him how long he's going to stay, so I know when to come round to his office to clean. He tells me he's going to be here for a while, and he asks me if I mind starting at the other side of the office. He says he's expecting _una senorita joven_ here at _siete menos_ \--I mean, seven-thirty."

"It's all right, _Senora,_ take your time," Quilleran told her gently. Glancing up at the female officer, a serious-looking blonde with long hair tightly bound in a French braid, he noticed she was holding a pad and pen in her hands. "Are you getting all this, Officer Rand?" he asked, seeing her nametag on the front of her uniform.

"Yes, sir, I'm getting it all down," she assured him as she finished writing the last thing Mrs. Martinez had said. "I don't speak Spanish as well as you do, but I know enough to follow along."

"Good. If you don't understand something, I'll translate it for you. Okay, _Senora,_ go on, please."

Dabbing at her eyes with the already damp tissue, she continued. "I-I tell _Senor_ Gary I don't mind starting the cleaning on the other side. Then I ask him if he want me to make coffee for him and his guest. He tells me 'No, _gracias, Senora_. In fact, I would appreciate it if you don't let the lady see you while she's here. _Ella es muy nerviosa_ , and she might get'--how you say, spooked? Yes, that's what he say, 'she might get spooked if she see you or anyone else here.' Then he gives me a twenty-dollar bill and tells me to take my time working my way over to his side. He was always so nice to me, giving me tips so I bring coffee or soda for whoever he's talking to, or-or not working on his side of the _officina_ while he's talking to someone. He even asks about my children, when I'm late getting here because the babysitter come late, or one of them is sick. _Ai, el pobre hombre!"_ She wept a little into the tissue while Officer Rand quickly wrote down what she had said. Quilleran pulled another tissue from the box on the desk and thoughtfully offered it to her.

_"Gracias, Senor Q."_ She pronounced his nickname the Spanish way, as "coo" rather than "cue", which always made him smile. "Anyway, I take my cart to the other side of the office and start cleaning there. I must have worked about twenty minutes when I hear the elevator door open. Then I hear click-click-click, like a woman's high heels, walking across the floor. I hear the footsteps go right to _Senor_ Gary's office, and I hear him say hello and please sit down."

"Did you see the lady at all?" Quilleran asked her. "Or hear her voice? Would you know her voice if you heard it again?"

"No, I don't see the lady. But I hear her voice. She sounds young, like my daughter. You remember my oldest girl, Diana? She's in high school."

_"Si, yo recuerdo Diana._ She must be sixteen now, no?"

_"Si, Senor Q._ This girl who comes to see _Senor_ Gary, she sounds as young as my oldest daughter. I hear her talking to him and she sounds worried. I don't hear her clearly, you understand. I was too busy cleaning to pay attention. But what I do hear, in between using my vacuum cleaner, she sounds worried. Once I think I even hear her crying. Then I hear _Senor_ Gary say 'There, there, everything's going to be all right’. They talk some more in low voices, while I empty out wastebaskets. By the time I get halfway to his cubicle, I hear _Senor_ Gary say 'Don't worry, this will stay between us. Nobody will know you came to me. Go straight home now, your mother must be worried.'

“She says thank you, it sounds like she was crying before but she's okay now. Then I hear her high heels clicking again as she goes to the elevator. I stay still and keep quiet so she don't know I'm here. When I hear the elevator door close, I start working again. Then I hear another door opening. The fire escape door at the back, by the service elevator. I think it must be Thomaso, the security guard, but he walks too fast."

"How do you know it was a man?" Quilleran asked, his reporter's instinct temporarily overriding his grief.

"His footsteps are faster than the _senorita's_ and sound heavier. Not as heavy as Thomaso, you know how fat he is." Quilleran nodded, thinking of the two-hundred pound plus rent-a-cop who usually manned the security desk downstairs and occasionally came up to patrol the hallways. "Anyway, when I hear somebody coming from the back stairs, I think it's Thomaso. But then I look at my watch and I see it's not time for him to be up here. So I get scared and hide myself inside the nearest cubicle. I hear these footsteps coming real fast toward where I'm hiding, and I hold my breath so he won't hear me. Then he walks right past me, and I hear him go into _Senor_ Gary's office."

"What happened next, _Senora_? Did you peek outside to see who it was?"

"No, I hear a strange man's voice, yelling at _Senor_ Gary. I get scared, 'cause he sounds mad. He's asking him what he's doing, why is he dragging her into it. He says she's innocent and he has no right to get her involved. He says she doesn't know the real story and he doesn't want her to know."

"Did he say who 'she' was? Did he mention a name?"

"No, he just keeps yelling while the _Senor_ is trying to calm him down. I don't understand all they're saying, the man says something about family business and how nobody needs to know, and _Senor_ Gary says something about the public's need to know and how he already gave his permission the first time he was interviewed. Then the man says 'I can't let you do this. I won't let you drag her into it.' Then I hear a shot. I jump and cover my mouth to keep from screaming. Then I hear another shot and I almost faint. Next thing I hear is someone running past me out in the hall. That's when I peek outside to see who it is. But all I see is a man dressed in dark clothes running to the fire exit."

"Did he look back long enough for you to see his face?"

"No, he don't look back. But I see he's still holding the gun in his hand and I keep my hands over my mouth so I don't scream. I'm so scared he might see me and shoot me too." She dissolved into a fresh bout of tears. Both Quilleran and Officer Rand spent the next few minutes comforting her, while Quinn and Detective Arbuthnot stood just outside the cubicle listening, Quinn with a worried look on his chubby face and the cop with a thoughtful scowl.

When Mrs. Martinez was calm enough to speak, Quilleran gave her another tissue and urged her to tell him what happened next. "After the man run past me, I hear him open the fire door and it goes 'Boom!' when it hits the wall, so hard it made me jump again. Then I hear him running down the stairs. When I'm sure he's gone, I run down the hall to see if _Senor_ Gary is okay. But when I see him, I know he’s dead. He was sitting in his chair with his head back, looking at the ceiling. I see a big, red hole in his chest, and another hole right next to it, both of them leaking blood. I call to him, but he doesn't answer, he just-just sags down into his chair, like he's going to fall out, but his arms are caught by the armrests and he just sags there, with his eyes open wide, still staring at the ceiling. That's when I start screaming. I scream and scream while I'm staring at poor _Senor_ Gary, sitting in his chair with two bullets in his chest, his eyes wide open and staring at nothing.

"When I stop screaming, I start crying. I cry and cry until I can't cry anymore, then I say to myself _'Estupida!_   Why you waste time crying, call the police!' So I-I go to the desk, pick up _Senor_ Gary's phone and dial 911. My hands are shaking so much, I can hardly dial straight. And when I hear the lady's voice saying 'Nine-one-one, what is your emergency?' I-I can't say anything at first. She keeps saying 'Hello? Hello? Are you there?' and I finally start talking. But I'm so upset, I can only speak Spanish. She tells me to slow down, asks me if I speak English. So I-I try to tell her what happened, but all I can do is give her the _direcho_ \--the address, and the floor I'm on, and who is dead. She tells me to stay calm, don't let anyone else in until the officers come, to lock myself in if I think the shooter is still in the building, and let the officers know I'm there when they arrive. I-I can't lock myself in, I don't have the key to _Senor_ Quinn's office. He always leaves it open for me. But I can't stay there looking at poor _Senor_ Gary. So I-I sit outside, by the elevator, crying and praying, until the cops come."

Quilleran patted her shaking hand soothingly as he spoke some comforting words in Spanish. When he looked up, he saw Rand was still writing on her pad. He waited until she had finished writing before asking her, "Did you respond to the 911 call?"

"Yes, my partner Officer Riley and I were the first ones on the scene,” Rand said. “I took charge of the witness while he verified the victim was dead and called for backup. We tried to interview the witness, but she was still too upset to speak English. I can speak Spanish on a rudimentary level, well enough to talk to children, but this is a grown woman. She uses words I don't understand. I didn't want to insult her by speaking to her like she was a child, so I just stayed with her and kept her calm until Lieutenant Arbuthnot arrived. He was able to speak to her more successfully, but she was still pretty upset until you came. I'm glad to see you were able to communicate more successfully."

"Yes, thank you for being so thoughtful, Officer Rand. Could you please stay with Mrs. Martinez for now, while I check things out?" Directing his attention to Mrs. Martinez, he said to her, _"Senora,_ could you please stay here with this nice lady while I talk to the other gentlemen? I promise to be back soon." She readily agreed, then told him how sorry she was for the death of his husband. She was one of the few people who readily accepted the idea of two men being married, which was unusual for her, being a practicing Catholic. Quilleran thanked her, then went to speak to Quinn.

Quinn and Arbuthnot were right outside the cubicle; they had their heads together, talking in low voices. When Quilleran came up to them, they stopped talking to each other and gave him their attention. "Well? Did you get a coherent story out of her?" the detective demanded, his gruff voice belying the concern in his pale blue eyes.

"Yes, I did. Your officer was able to write it down. Once it's been transcribed into English and Spanish, she'll be able to read it and sign it. She's not too good at reading English, but she's quite literate in Spanish. I always see a copy of the local Spanish newspaper sticking out of her tote bag. She reads it on her breaks."

"Thanks, Quilleran," the cop told him, a little less gruffly. "I was hoping she'd speak more freely with someone she knew."

"Why didn't you get Quinn here to talk to her?" Quilleran looked at his boss, puzzled. "You've known Mrs. Martinez as long as me and Gary have. Couldn't you talk to her?"

"No, because one, I don't know her as well as you and Gary did. And two, I don't speak Spanish. I speak a smattering of French, thanks to a certain professor of literature that I married." He smiled, as he always did when he mentioned his auburn-haired wife.

"Yes, I always wondered how you conned that poor woman into marrying you. You must have memorized a bunch of French poetry that you learned to recite phonetically."

"Oh, yeah? Well, I'm surprised you ever got Gary to marry you, since you're barely literate in English." An awkward silence fell as they remembered that Gary was now dead, which put an end to their usual playful teasing.

"May I see him now?" Quilleran asked, with a quaver in his voice as he tried not to cry.

"Sure you can. He can see him now, can't he?" Quinn asked the cop.

"Yes, you can see him. Brace yourself, we haven't moved the body or touched it except to make sure that there was no sign of life." Beneath his gruff exterior, Quilleran could see that Arbuthnot was really a kind man, pretending to be hard-hearted so he could do his job without breaking down. "Let me go ahead of you and see whether the CSI team has finished." He went into Gary's office to speak to the techs there.

"Are you sure you're okay with this?" Quinn asked him anxiously.

"Yes, I can do it," Quilleran told him, fighting back the tears.

"All right. Don't worry, I'll be right behind you. You just have to look at him and say 'Yes, that's him.’ I'd do the same for Kathryn."

"Yes, I know. And she for you." He squared his shoulders and took a deep breath, then walked toward the office, with Quinn right behind him.

Arbuthnot was waiting for him at the door. He nodded and told him gruffly, "Okay, the CSI team is through. You can come in." He stood aside and watched Quilleran walk by, keeping his head up and his eyes straight ahead. It was only a few steps from the office door to the desk. Quilleran stood in front of it and saw his beloved Gary sitting behind the desk in his ergonomic desk chair, slumped down in it as if he had fallen asleep. But his eyes were wide open, the grey pupils fixed and sightless as they stared up at the ceiling. His craggy face still had an expression of pained surprise, as if he hadn't expected this. The grey streaks in his brown hair stood out cruelly under the florescent light.

Quilleran stood staring at him silently, trying to reconcile the sight of the dead man before him with the living, smiling man that he knew and loved. He heard Detective Arbuthnot saying behind him, "Mister Quilleran, is this your husband, Gary Seven?"

"Yes, that's him," he managed to say calmly, without breaking into tears. "That's my husband, Gary Seven."

Detective Arbuthnot said to someone outside the office, "Please note that the victim was officially identified by his lawful husband as Gary Seven, an employee of this newspaper."

"Yes, sir," came a dutiful voice in reply. Quilleran heard them as if from a distance. Everything was so far away, Gary's dead body was so near. The two bullet holes in his chest were red and wet, the bloodstains on his white shirt, put on fresh this morning, were so bright. He kept waiting for Gary to sit up and yell "Surprise!" and start laughing at him for falling for one of his jokes. But if this was a joke, it was a really bad one. And his timing stank. He should have sat up and said "Surprise!" by now. All he could do was stand there and stare at him, wishing this was just a bad dream and he'd wake up and find himself back home in bed beside Gary.

"Come on, Q, that's enough," he heard Quinn's voice saying sympathetically. "Let me take you home. I'll get you a drink and Kathryn will make you a bed on the couch."

"No, thank you, I'd rather go to my own apartment," Quilleran told him calmly.

"Are you sure? You really shouldn't be alone tonight."

"Yes, I'm sure. Just take me back to my own home—to our home. Please." He couldn't hide the quaver in his voice at the last word as he turned away from the body of his love.

"All right, Q, come on." Quinn put an arm around him and led him away. He kept holding his head up and his eyes straight ahead, seeing nothing, hearing nothing. Quinn said good night for him to the cops and the cleaning lady as he steered him toward the elevator. When they got downstairs, he led him to his car and insisted on driving him home. When they got to his co-op building, Quinn escorted him upstairs, then took the keys from his slack hand and opened the apartment door for him. Once inside, he helped him off with his coat and led him to the living room, where he made him sit down on the couch while he turned off the TV and made them a couple of drinks.

Quilleran sat staring at the picture of him and Gary on their wedding day, hanging on the opposite wall over Gary’s favorite chair. He focused on the date below the picture of the two smiling men in tuxedoes, each with one hand on the knife slicing through the wedding cake, and realized that their first wedding anniversary was only two months away. Tears ran silently down his face as he thought: _*I haven’t even been married a year and I’m already a widower.*_

When Quinn brought him his drink, he thanked him automatically and sipped his scotch and soda silently. Quinn sat beside him holding his own drink in one hand as he regarded him worriedly. “Are you okay, Q?” he asked, worried by his friend’s prolonged silence.

Quilleran sat staring at his half-finished drink for a while before replying. “Our anniversary is in two months, Quinn,” he said softly. “But he won’t be here to celebrate it. I’ll have to do it alone.”

“You’re not alone, buddy,” Quinn assured him. “Kathryn and I will be there. We’ll always be there for you.”

“But he won’t be there,” said Quilleran, still staring at his drink between his hands. “Why, Quinn? Why? Who killed my husband and why did he do it?”

“It has to be something to do with the story he was working on. Don’t worry, the cops will find who did it and make him talk.”

“Yeah, right. The cops are going to go out of their way to find the murderer of a gay man.” Quilleran took a long swallow of his drink to wash away the bitterness of sorrow.

“Not just any gay man. A well-known, respected journalist who’s worked with the cops before. This has to be related to the story he was working on. If we could just find out who his confidential informant was, and that man who objected to Gary interviewing her...”

“She didn’t even see his face.” Quilleran slurred his words as the strong drink began to affect him. “Mrs. Martinez didn’t see his face. She was too scared to look. She just hid and waited for him to go away.”

“Well, you can’t blame her. She’s a widow and she’s got kids too. You can’t be a hero when you’ve got kids at home, and nobody to take care of them if something happens to you.”

“What’s gonna happen to me, Quinn? What’s gonna happen to me, without him?” Quilleran’s vision blurred with drink and tears as he tried to imagine the long, grey years ahead of him without Gary.

“You’ll be all right, buddy. You’ll go on being the best damn reporter we’ve got, ‘cause Gary would want you to do that,” Quinn assured him. “He’d want you to be strong and carry on.”

“I don’t know what Gary would want, but I know what I want; to catch the man who killed him. And I will,” he said, looking Quinn in the eye, managing to sound sober even though he was drunk. “I’m going to find the son of a bitch who killed my husband. And you’re going to help me."

  
********

WEDNESDAY, MARCH 21st, 7:50 a.m., 2012

Quilleran came back to the present to find Picard holding his hand across the table, looking at him with love and compassion. “How long did it take you to find who killed him?” he asked.

“Not as long as I thought it would. I got a lucky break after I cleaned out Gary’s desk at the office. I was going through his things the day before the funeral, and I-” The cell phone clipped to his belt emitted a two-toned beep, and proceeded to do so repeatedly. “Damn! Sorry, I better get this.” He took the phone out of its holster, glanced at the screen to see who the caller was, then whipped it open and held it to his ear. “Okay, Quinn, you got me. What’s up?”

“Good morning to you too,” came his editor’s cheerful voice. “I just wanted to tell you to come to my office as soon as you get here. I want to share something with you that I found out about the good Father McKenzie.”

“Oh, really? And just what did you find out about the good Father McKenzie?”

“It’s too long to go into on the phone. I’ll tell you everything when you get here.”

“Okay, I’ll see you when I get there.” He snapped the phone shut and slid it back into the holster as he stood up. “I’m out of here, love. See you tonight.”

“Why don’t we meet for lunch?” Picard suggested as he followed him to the door. “Then you can finish telling me about Gary.”

“Oh, so you’re curious about my past now?” Quilleran teased him as he grabbed his red parka off the coat hook by the door.

“Yes, curiouser and curiouser,” Picard admitted, handing him a red travel mug containing his second cup of coffee, which he always filled before the first mug.

“I’ll try to satisfy your curiosity at lunch, provided nothing comes up before noon. Will you be home or at church?”

“I’m scheduled to teach a morning English class at Saint John’s, so I’ll see you there at 12:30.”

“All right, Saint John’s at 12:30. See you there.” One quick kiss and he was gone, leaving his husband to finish his breakfast in peace, aside from a little begging from Isis and an itch to know what had happened before Gary’s funeral seven years ago.

********

Arriving at The Boston Globe by quarter of nine, Quilleran went straight to Quinn’s office, pausing at Roberta’s desk to deposit his now empty travel mug for her to refill. He found Quinn sitting at his desk, blond head bent over an open book alongside his computer monitor. His head kept going back and forth, from the book’s pages to the screen, as if he were at a tennis match.

“Are you multi-tasking?” Quilleran asked, after observing him from the doorway for a few minutes.

“What?” A startled Quinn looked up at him, blue eyes magnified by his thick eyeglass lenses. “Oh, hi! I was just comparing facts from two different sources.” Quinn straightened up and waved him to a chair alongside his desk. “Sit down and let me show you what I’ve learned about Father McKenzie.”

After shrugging out of his coat and hanging it across the chair back, Quilleran took his seat. “So, what’s the 411 on McKenzie?”

“Well, he used to be assigned to New York City, where he worked for Francis Cardinal Spellman back in the 60’s. Did you ever hear a rumor that Spellman was secretly gay?”

“Yes, I did. Was it true?”

“In a word, yes. John Cooney, Spellman’s biographer, says in his book here, _The American Pope_ , that he talked to priests who had worked for Spellman and they were—” he reached up to adjust his glasses and read from the open book on his desk, “‘incensed, dismayed and angered by his conduct’. And a fellow journalist, Michelangelo Signorile,” he looked up at his computer screen, which showed a picture of a smiling man in his fifties, with thinning hair and a face full of beard stubble, wearing a black tee shirt, “describes Spellman as ‘one of the most notorious, powerful and sexually voracious homosexuals in the American Catholic Church's history’,” he said, reading from the screen. “He claims that Cooney's manuscript for _The American Pope_ initially contained interviews with several people who had personal knowledge of Spellman's homosexuality. But according to Signorile, the Catholic Church pressured Cooney's publisher, Times Books, to reduce the four pages discussing Spellman's sexuality to a single paragraph.”

“You don’t say?” Quilleran wasn’t surprised. “Did either Signorile or Cooney make any references to Father McKenzie?”

“No, he’s not mentioned by name in Cooney’s book. But he does mention several English priests who were on Spellman’s staff during his tenure as archbishop. Half of these gentlemen were among those who were ‘incensed, dismayed and angered’ by Spellman’s private life. The other half were either active participants in said private life, or enablers who helped Spellman to remain undercover while helping him get under the covers with young men, inside and outside of the Church, if you get my meaning.”

“I get it. Fellow queers and panderers. Holy hypocrites who deplored homosexuality in public while leading a gay life in private.”

“That’s the way it was back then, Q. The Catholic Church was a lot like the Army, with a ‘Don’t Ask, Don’t Tell’ policy. Remember, this was back in the days when it was still considered a sin for a girl to get pregnant out of wedlock. Nowadays they celebrate it.” Quinn shrugged.

“But do you believe that one of these English priests Cooney refers to was McKenzie?”

“I’m sure it was. We just have to prove it.”

“You mean I have to prove it.”

“Well, you are this paper’s best investigative reporter,” Quinn reminded him. “I’ve already started the research for you. Take this book and go to this website,” he tapped the upper left corner of the monitor screen showing the website address, “and you’ll be well on your way.”

“Okay, I’ll skim through it and make notes,” Quilleran sighed as he took the book. “Where did you get this from, the library?”

“No, our religion editor, believe it or not. Tony bought it along with a handful of other books about prominent Catholic clergymen during the height of the child sex abuse scandal. He meant to write an expose, but he lost his nerve. So when I asked him if he had any background info about McKenzie or anybody he worked with, he dug this out of the pile. He seems to believe that McKenzie is one of the priests mentioned in the book, because he heard his name mentioned along with Cardinal Spellman’s once, concerning a baby’s adoption.”

“A baby?” Quilleran’s nose for news began to itch. “Whose baby? His or the cardinal’s?”

“I don’t know. Why don’t you find out? That’s what we pay you for,” Quinn reminded him, with a grin.

Sighing like a martyr, Quilleran wrote the website for Michelangelo Signorile on the book’s front flyleaf. As he exited the office, he passed Roberta’s desk, where she was busy editing a memo on her own computer. Without looking away from the screen, she held out his red travel mug with one hand as she continued to proofread what she had written.

“French Vanilla today,” she informed him.

“Thank you.” He took the now full mug from her and headed for his office, wondering for the umpteenth time where she had hidden the coffeemaker he had given her for Christmas. After one too many moochers in the office had helped themselves from it, making her run out of coffee before she and her boss had drunk their fill, she had relocated it to a more secure location. Aside from the tantalizing smell of fresh coffee that filled the office in the morning and afternoon, there was no sign of the coffeemaker anywhere. But he enjoyed the many flavored brews she liked ordering from that online gourmet coffee company. Most of them, anyway; that Fresh Blueberry Breakfast Blend had been a washout. So was that Morning Coffee Cake flavor. But as long as she kept the coffee coming, he could stay at his desk doing research until lunch.

After settling himself at his desk, Quilleran logged onto his computer and then opened the book. He spent the rest of the morning reading _The American Pope_ and checking the facts online, going back and forth from Signorile’s website to others he had found useful in the past. He made copious notes, as well as a few phone calls to his sources. Roberta refilled his coffee mug twice while he was working the phone. It wasn’t until he felt his stomach rumbling that he looked at the clock and realized it was a quarter after noon. Not wanting to keep his husband waiting at the church, he quickly logged off and put the book away (filled with bright yellow Post-It notes bookmarking pages where he’d found something interesting), sticking it into a little blue drawstring backpack with the newspaper’s logo, along with his notebook. Putting on his parka and throwing the backpack over one shoulder, he grabbed his still half-full travel mug and strode out of his office, heading for the elevator. On his way there, he found Roberta unwrapping her lunch at her desk and told her, “If Jean-Luc calls, tell him I’m on my way to Saint John’s. I’m supposed to meet him there at 12:30, but I know I’m going to be late.”

“Don’t worry, he’ll wait for you,” she assured him over her chicken salad sandwich, a container of cinnamon apple yogurt next to her cup of coffee.

Seeing the yogurt, he said, “What, no chips?”

“Gave ‘em up for Lent,” she told him before taking a bite of her sandwich.

Chuckling, he headed for the elevator. By the time he got to the lobby, he had zipped up his coat and thrown the backpack over his left arm, carrying his coffee mug in his right. He went through the revolving door and headed for his car parked at the end of the block. On his way there he bumped into a short, young man with blond hair, wearing a beige designer trench coat.

“Oops! Excuse me, sir,” said the young man with a charming smile as he looked up at him hopefully.

“You’re excused,” Quilleran told him brusquely and went on his way without breaking his stride. The young man stared at his retreating back with an astonished expression. Quilleran didn’t even look back; after all, he was happily married and his cruising days were behind him. He got in his car and drove off, without seeing how the young man continued to stand there on the sidewalk, looking surprised and disappointed, and a little scared as well.

********

By 12:40 p.m., he managed to find a parking space a half block from Saint John the Apostle’s Community Center. The walk there was short, it just seemed longer because of the chilly weather and the frigid wind that kept blowing in his face. By the time he got there, he was chilled to the bone and the smell of hot coffee and soup from the center’s kitchen was very tempting. He found his husband at a table in the rear, with Sister Edith Keeler and Father Joseph Lafayette, all three eating bowls of Boston Clam Chowder and arguing amiably over a schedule on a clipboard that was being passed from hand to hand.

Father Joseph, a tall, thin black man originally from New Orleans, who looked younger than his seventy-eight years despite the gray hairs sprinkled liberally through his full head of black hair, peered nearsightedly at the schedule as he spoke. “So, seeing how we have all these leftovers from the Saint Patrick’s Day Dance,” he said in a pleasant tenor voice that still had the patois of the Big Easy in it, “I think we should recycle them for the Alcoholics Anonymous Meeting on Friday.”

“Yes, the Irish soda bread and other pastries were frozen, so they can be served with the coffee,” Sister Edith agreed. She didn’t wear a habit, but her modest outfit of blue denim knee-length skirt, white long-sleeved blouse and navy blue cardigan plainly said she was here to work. Her short, dark brown hair, just dusted with gray, was neatly combed, her brown eyes were kind, and her smile made even the worse sinners feel like there was hope of deliverance for them.

“Speaking of coffee,” Picard said to the nun, “we received a generous donation of five pound cans from the local coffee shop, when they found themselves overstocked. Some of them have passed their freshness expiration date, but that shouldn’t affect the flavor once it’s brewed.”

“Yes, people are too quick to discard food when it’s passed its freshness date,” said Sister Edith in her refined Boston accent, sounding similar to Picard’s British diction. “They don’t realize that sealed products like coffee last a lot longer than the ‘Use By’ date.” She looked at Father Joseph, who was still squinting at the clipboard, and frowned. “Father, where are your glasses?”

“In my back pocket.”

“Is your pocket nearsighted? Stop straining your eyes and put them on.”

“Yes, Sister,” said Father Joseph, smiling indulgently as he dug in his back pocket for his eyeglasses. He wore black trousers with his black clerical shirt and white collar, and Picard wore a yellow sweater vest over a white shirt and khaki trousers, but anybody who saw them all sitting at the table would have said that there were two priests and one nun sitting there. Quilleran only saw his husband sitting with a priest and a nun.

“Hello, Jean-Luc, sorry I’m late,” he greeted him affectionately as he took the empty chair next to him.

“Good to see you, _mon cher_. Help yourself to some soup after you’ve settled in.”

“Yes, it’s very good today,” Sister Edith told him with a smile as she held up a spoonful of the clam chowder.

“Did they use fresh milk?” Quilleran asked.

“No, silly, canned milk. You know we save the fresh milk for the babies in the daycare program.”

“Yes, of course. Silly me,” Quilleran sighed. He shucked his parka and draped it over the back of his chair as he stood up. “Since I’m so hungry, I’ll overlook the canned milk aftertaste and get myself a bowl. Along with whatever sandwich they’re serving today.”

“It’s bologna and cheese,” Picard told him helpfully.

“Wonderful; Welfare steaks again.” Quilleran rolled his eyes as he hung his little backpack on the chair over his coat’s right shoulder. “Guard that with your life,” he told his husband. “I’ll be right back.”

As he headed for the lunch counter, he heard Sister Edith say primly to his husband, “I wish your husband would adjust his attitude towards our menu. This isn’t the Ritz, you know.” He smiled, knowing what it cost the conservative nun to acknowledge the fact that he and Jean-Luc were married. She and Father Joseph were among the few people who knew that Saint John’s most dedicated volunteer was both gay and a former priest.

When he got back to the table, he was holding a tray with a bowl of clam chowder (made with Carnation Milk, which he thought more appropriate for the children in the daycare program), a sandwich wrapped in plastic, a cup of coffee and two paper plates holding a slice of apple pie apiece, also wrapped in plastic. As soon as he sat down, he put one of the slices of pie in front of his husband.

“Oh, thank you, Q,” Picard said graciously, glancing at the dessert over his now empty soup bowl. “You shouldn’t have.”

“Don’t tell me I shouldn’t have. If I shouldn’t have, I wouldn’t have.” He mentally braced himself and took a spoonful of soup into his mouth. The overly sweet taste of the condensed milk wasn’t too apparent today; he thought that someone must have added extra clams, or simply didn’t drain the water from the canned clams they used for the chowder. At least it was hot and edible. He ate about a third of the bowl before unwrapping his sandwich and taking a bite. Even the American cheese that covered it couldn’t conceal the fact that it was bologna, but at least it was fresh, as well as the bread it was on. He washed it down with coffee, alternating it with soup until both soup and sandwich were gone. Then he used the apple pie to wipe away the taste of the sandwich. While he was eating, he listened idly to the clerics and his husband talking about upcoming church and community affairs at Saint John’s.

Father Joseph, now wearing his glasses, said as he scanned a list on the clipboard, “The ladies on the food prep committee are preparing Hot Cross Buns for the RCIA class on Friday night. The children will start dying Easter eggs in the afterschool program on Monday. And we have plenty of volunteers for the foot washing ceremony on Holy Thursday. All we need now are a couple of adult chaperones for the young people’s confirmation class trip. Would you and Q be willing to go?” he asked Picard.

“I would be happy to. Q?” He turned to his husband, looking hopefully at him.

Quilleran shook his head firmly as he chewed. “Sorry, include me out,” he said around a mouthful of apple pie.

“Why?”

Quilleran swallowed and took a sip of coffee before he spoke. “Because I have no patience with kids. That’s why we never had any,” he added jokingly.

Sister Edith sighed. “I do wish you wouldn’t joke like that in public, Q.”

“Why not? It’s true. At least the part about me not having patience with kids.”

She lowered her voice as she replied tersely, “Because not everybody here knows that Jean-Luc is a) homosexual, and b) married to you. And if it leaks out to the wrong people, they’re bound to raise a fuss.”

“Oh yes, of course. I forgot how zealous the Family Values people are at protecting their young from anybody who isn’t white, rich or straight. As if their precious darlings aren’t in more danger from the priests nowadays than from openly gay people in their own parish. Present company excepted,” he said hastily to Father Joseph.

“Dearest, are you forgetting that I’m not openly gay here?” Picard asked him softly. “I can’t afford to be out if I want to work around children.”

“But you work with adults, my love. Or are there children in those English as a Second Language classes you teach?”

Picard sighed. “No, but there are children attending the afterschool program at the same time that I’m teaching. So by the standards of the anti-gay element that keeps sticking its collective nose into our affairs, just my being there at the same time as the children exposes them to an undesirable element.”

“Is that true, Father?” Quilleran asked the priest.

“I’m afraid it is,” he admitted sadly. “I lost one of my best volunteers last year because some people objected to him teaching a cooking class in the evenings. When they found out he was gay, they said that people might get AIDS from eating food he had prepared.”

“But that’s bullshit!” Quilleran objected.

“Yes, I know. He didn’t even have AIDS! But you can’t reason with bigots. The poor fellow resigned voluntarily when he found out that they were threatening to send a petition to the archdiocese, accusing me of endangering the members of my parish by allowing ‘undesirables’ to volunteer here.”

Quilleran snorted. “Don’t get me started about the number of ‘undesirables’ I found among the priests working with Cardinal Spellman back in the 60’s.”

“Cardinal Spellman? Are you saying that there were gay priests on his staff back then?” Father Joseph asked.

“Yes, and the cardinal himself was a closet case. That’s part of the story I’m working on now, thanks to a visit from an obnoxious priest last night who almost spoiled my birthday party.”

“How did he do that?” asked Father Joseph sympathetically.

“He claimed he was sent by the church to see how Jean-Luc had adjusted to civilian life. But he seemed more interested in seeing if he could convince Jean-Luc to return to the priesthood.”

Sister Edith stiffened in her seat. “Really?” she said coolly. “Was this priest a tall fellow with blue eyes and a British accent?”

Both Picard and Quilleran turned to look at her. “Yes, he was,” Picard admitted with a note of surprise in his voice. “Do you know Father McKenzie?”

“Yes, unfortunately,” she said, disgust and loathing in her refined voice. “That miserable poser ruined my life!”

Now all three men sat staring at her. “Sister, would you care to elaborate?” Picard asked her cautiously.

“Yes, please!” Quilleran urged her.

She sighed. “All right, I’ll tell you. But you must promise me that it’ll go no further than this table.” All three men solemnly promised, so she told them her story. “Back in 1977, I was a young nun serving in the 21st Street Mission, a homeless shelter on New York’s Lower East Side. One of our regulars was a former Navy officer, Captain James T. Kirk. He had a drinking problem and was in and out of counseling as often as he was in and out of work. The horrors he’d seen in Vietnam kept him awake at night, so he turned to the bottle for comfort. Once I became his spiritual advisor, in the Alcoholics Anonymous group I was mentoring, I was able to persuade him to turn to Jesus for comfort and leave the bottle alone. It wasn’t easy for him, but eventually he gave up the booze and became sober. He took it one day at a time, and gradually he found himself gainfully employed and sober for a full year. After his second year of sobriety, he told me he loved me and asked me to marry him.”

“And did you?” asked Quilleran.

“Yes, after a great deal of soul-searching I realized that I loved him too. So I left the sisterhood and became his wife on June 1st, 1979.” She smiled as she recalled that brief period of happiness in her life. “We lived in a two-room apartment on the second floor of a tenement near the shelter. We both did volunteer work there, evenings and weekends, and were deliriously happy. Until Father McKenzie came along.”

“Let me guess,” said Quilleran, “it was a year after your laicization and he was sent by the church to see how you had adjusted to civilian life?”

“Yes, and despite my assurances that I was perfectly happy with my husband, he tried to convince me to return to the church. He told me how much my sisters in the order missed me, and how much more good I could do as a nun, rather than a layperson. He also pointed out, rather slyly, that as a former alcoholic Jim could relapse at any time. But I wouldn’t listen. So he left, urging me to contact him if I changed my mind. He seemed awfully confident that I would do so, but I didn’t take it seriously at the time.”

“How did your husband react to McKenzie’s innuendoes?” Picard asked.

“Oh, he was highly indignant. He kept assuring me that nothing would make him turn back to the bottle. If I had known what was going to happen next, I would have preferred he turn to the bottle,” Edith said, her soulful brown eyes full of pain.

“What happened, Sister?” Picard asked gently.

She closed her eyes and sat very still for a while, her head held high, but with a strained look on her face, as a single tear fell from the corner of her right eye. When she spoke again, her voice was hoarse; she kept her eyes closed. “I came home from the mission one evening and found Jim in the arms of another woman.” All three men let out exclamations of shock and sympathy, but she hastened to assure them, “No, no, they weren’t kissing or in bed. They were in the living room, weeping in each other’s arms. She turned out to be his old sweetheart, Carol Marcus, the girl he fell in love with back in high school. Her father, Admiral Marcus, didn’t approve of Jim, so they had to meet secretly. They became engaged at their senior prom, before he enlisted in the Navy and went to Vietnam. He promised to marry her when he got back. But while he was away, Carol found out she was pregnant. Her father was furious. He beat her so badly, she nearly miscarried. Then he shipped her off to a Catholic home for unwed mothers, somewhere upstate. While she was there, Jim was taken prisoner by the Viet Cong and spent eighteen months in a prison camp. But Carol’s father lied to her and told her that Jim had been killed in combat.

“The poor girl spent her pregnancy mourning for Jim and planning to raise their child by herself. Her father kept pressuring her to give the baby up for adoption, but she insisted on keeping it, since it was the last thing she had left of Jim. She had a baby boy, but he died shortly after he was born. So Carol spent the next thirteen years mourning for Jim and her baby, acquiring a college degree along the way and becoming a successful scientist. She also became estranged from her father, whom she never forgave for forbidding her marriage to the only man she ever loved. Then one day she received an anonymous letter, telling her that her baby’s father, the man she had never stopped loving, was still alive, and married to someone else in New York.”

“Now I wonder who could have sent her that letter?” Quilleran wondered aloud.

“Yes, it does seem a bit of a coincidence,” Picard remarked, “that your husband’s old sweetheart should receive a letter telling her he was still alive, right after Father McKenzie visited you.”

“I had my suspicions too,” she admitted, “but only after my marriage to Jim had ended, and I found myself back in my old order. My sisters welcomed me back, but my heart was still sore, even though I knew I had done the right thing by letting Jim go back to his first love. It turned out that Admiral Marcus had lied to Jim too; after he managed to escape from the prison camp and return to the states, he went straight to the Marcus’ home and asked to see Carol. By that time, she was at college, but her father told him that she had died in childbirth, along with the baby. Poor Jim was so devastated he threw himself into his Navy career to forget his heartache. He also turned to the bottle for comfort. By the time the war ended in 1975, he was a full-blown alcoholic. Our paths crossed while he was an emotional basket case, still eaten up by guilt over his sweetheart’s death, as well as trauma from the mis-treatment he’d endured in the prison camp. I helped him to deal with his past and his pain, give up the bottle and live for tomorrow, instead of in the past. I thought that I would be part of his future, but it turned out that we had no future together. When his old sweetheart came back into his life, he told me that he couldn’t stand the thought of losing her again, but he didn’t want to just abandon me after I had been so good to him. He loved us both, but he couldn’t decide who he loved more. So I decided for him.”

“Was that wise, Sister?” Father Joseph asked gently. “You could have both gone to counseling and worked it out. You didn’t have to give up your husband to his old love, just because he couldn’t deal with his guilt.”

She looked at him with tears in her eyes. “I couldn’t bear seeing him torn between us, Father. I was afraid he’d end up going back to the bottle. So I told him he was free to go back to his first love, while I went back to the Church. The last time I saw him, just before I was transferred to Boston, he was getting ready to marry Carol in a civil ceremony at City Hall. He came by the mission to thank me and say that he would always love me; not as much as he loved Carol, of course, but he said that I would always have a special place in his heart.” She sobbed briefly before adding, “I never told him that I would have preferred to have a place by his side. He had made his choice, and I didn’t want to spoil his happiness.”

“But what about your happiness?” Quilleran demanded. “After all you did for him, getting him off the booze, finding him a job, helping him put his life together. Then the minute his old girlfriend shows up, he splits and you’re left out in the cold!”

“Not quite; the Church did take her back,” Picard reminded him.

“Yes, which was just what Father McKenzie wanted! I still think it was more than a coincidence that Kirk’s old girlfriend got that anonymous letter after McKenzie visited them.”

“Did you see Father McKenzie again after you had returned to the sisterhood?” Picard asked Sister Edith.

“Yes, about a month after my return to my order, he came by to welcome me back. He also expressed his sympathy that my marriage hadn’t worked out. But I could tell by his smug smile and his patronizing attitude that he wasn’t sorry at all. He looked like a bloody cat licking cream off its whiskers!” She clenched her fists on the tabletop, her dark eyes bright with fury at the memory. The brightness faded as she folded her hands and stared at them sadly, shrugging in resignation. “As I said, I had my suspicions about McKenzie’s involvement in the breakup of my marriage. But I had no proof. So I applied for a transfer to Boston and dedicated myself to helping others, and I never looked back. But I could never bring myself to attend an Alcoholics Anonymous meeting again, even as a mentor.”

“I always wondered why you never offered to volunteer at an AA meeting,” Father Joseph said thoughtfully. “Now I understand.”

Quilleran sat frowning thoughtfully. Something had to be done, but what? How could he prove that McKenzie had been the one who sent the anonymous letter to Jim Kirk’s old sweetheart that led to the breakup of his marriage to Edith? “Tell me something, Sister, did Carol show you the anonymous letter she got?”

“Why, yes. She showed it to me right after I caught her and Jim together.”

“Did you recognize the handwriting?”

“No, I’m afraid not.”

“But did it look like a man’s handwriting to you?”

Sister Edith frowned thoughtfully as she stared off into the distance, trying to remember. “Yes,” she said finally, “it did look like a man’s handwriting.”

“But did it look familiar to you?” he persisted. She shook her head. “Have you ever seen a sample of Father McKenzie’s handwriting? Would you recognize it if you saw it?”

“No, I’m sorry.”

A wicked gleam came into Quilleran’s dark eyes. “Well, then, it looks as if I have to obtain a sample of the good father’s handwriting, before I pay a visit to your ex-husband and his wife in New York.”

“Now, Q, don’t harass those poor people,” Picard told him. “It seems to me they’ve suffered enough.”

“Hasn’t Sister Edith suffered too? Don’t you think she deserves something in return for her sacrifice? Like finding out who was responsible for the breakup of her marriage?”

“My marriage ended because I chose to let Jim go,” she told him firmly.

“But you wouldn’t have had to make that choice if his old girlfriend hadn’t come back into his life,” Quilleran pointed out. “Wouldn’t you like to know if McKenzie is responsible?”

Sister Edith sighed. “It’s been thirty-two years, Q. What good would it do me now?”

“It would give you the satisfaction of knowing who’s to blame, and it would help me build a case against McKenzie if he tried to do something similar to break up my marriage to Jean-Luc. Of course,” he added quickly, “I don’t have any old boyfriends who were left heartbroken by my sudden disappearance—”

“Oh, really?” Picard said mischievously. “I got the impression that you were quite the heartbreaker in your day, my dear.”

Sister Edith giggled while Father Joseph grinned. Quilleran blushed with embarrassment as he mumbled, “You mean ballbreaker. My habit of using tidbits I picked up during pillow talk with my lovers made me very unpopular, even as it made my reputation as a reporter.”

“Shame on you, you naughty boy!” the priest scolded him playfully. “You’re not supposed to kiss and tell!”

“Oh, back off, Father!” Quilleran told him irritably. “Just tell me how would you go about getting a sample of another priest’s handwriting?”

“I would write to him, of course. Ask him if he knows so-and-so from such-and-such parish and if he can vouch for his character. Better yet, I can invite him to be the guest celebrant at our Good Friday service to give a sermon on the theme of redemption, since I have heard what a wonderful job he has done in leading lost sheep back to Mother Church’s pasture.”

Sister Edith laughed bitterly. “That’s right, Father, flatter the smug bastard and make him think you approve of his job, to ruin the lives of those of us who have left holy orders.”

“I’m sure you’re not the only one who has suffered by his actions, Sister,” Father Joseph told her gravely. “If he has made a habit of it, then it is up to our friend here to ferret it out.” He nodded at Quilleran knowingly.

“Well, I certainly intend to try!” he told him. “You go ahead and write to McKenzie, Father. I have a trip to New York to plan, after I get some more information from Sister Edith here.”

********

At 2:30 p.m., Quilleran was in his editor’s office to request an expense voucher for his trip to New York. After Quilleran had filled him in on what he had learned about Father McKenzie from Sister Edith, Quinn shook his head, a look of disgust on his usually cheerful face. “You know,” he remarked, “the more I learn about this priest, the less I like him.”

“Yes, to know him is to love him,” Quilleran quipped. “If you’re a member of the Inquisition, that is.”

“So when do you want to go to New York?”

“As soon as McKenzie sends Father Joseph an answer to his invitation to be a guest celebrant at Saint John’s on Good Friday. I found out where he was staying by calling the Boston Archdiocese office to ask where I should forward his messages. Hopefully he’ll send Father Joseph a handwritten reply. If he sends a form letter or a writes it on a computer, I’m screwed.”

“No, you’ll still have his signature to use for comparison to Carol Marcus’ letter.”

“Yes, that’ll be better than nothing. But I would still prefer a more detailed sample of his handwriting to compare to Carol’s letter.”

“How do you know she still has the letter? She may have thrown it away or lost it, after all these years.”

“I doubt it. That letter is the sort of thing a woman keeps, when it leads to a happy ending with her lost love. Besides, I want to interview her and Jim Kirk as well, to get both their impressions about the mysterious letter which led to their reunion.”

“And to the end of Jim’s marriage to Sister Edith. Poor thing,” Quinn sighed.

“Yes, she’s a nice lady who deserves better. I can’t get her husband back for her, but I can see that she gets justice for her loss.”

“If you can prove that McKenzie is the one responsible for her loss.”

“I’ll prove it or die trying,” said Quilleran.

“Be careful, buddy. Remember how you almost got shot the last time you investigated a shady priest,” Quinn reminded him.

“I’m not about to forget that,” said Quilleran, remembering all too well the low-speed chase on the snowy New York highway with a Mafia thug shooting at him. “At least McKenzie doesn’t have any connections with the mob.”

“He doesn’t need any. The Catholic Church is formidable enough as it is. Remember that before you go off on a one-man crusade against the church.”

“I’m not afraid of the church. I’ve already taken them on once and won. I even married one of their priests,” he said proudly.

“Former priest,” Quinn reminded him. “He left the priesthood for you. But he didn’t leave the church. If he had, maybe this McKenzie guy wouldn’t be trying so hard to get him back.”

“Well, he can’t have him back. He’s mine! And unlike Sister Edith, I’m not giving up my husband without a fight.”

Quinn chuckled as he looked through his desk for an expense voucher to fill out. “That’s it, buddy, never say die. I’m just glad for your sake that your husband’s first love died in the Falklands War. Otherwise you might find yourself in the same predicament as Sister Edith.” He found the form he was looking for in his bottom drawer and leaned down to get it. So he didn’t see the expression on Quilleran’s face as he realized how similar his fate would have been to Edith’s if Chief Petty Officer Miles O’Brien hadn’t been ambushed on patrol.

By 5:00 p.m., Quilleran was ready to go home. He’d already written an outline of the story he was working on and saved it on his computer’s main drive. He’d given it a working title, “The Bad Shepherd”, to make it plain that he didn’t consider Father McKenzie’s job a godly one. His assistant handed him his expense voucher on his way out, already approved and signed by his editor.

“So when are you leaving?” Roberta asked.

“Not until I get a certain letter from my parish priest,” Quilleran told her as he stuffed the voucher into his little backpack, along with his travel mug, his copy of “The American Pope” and a rapidly filling spiral notepad of facts about Father Malcolm McKenzie, which he’d already transcribed to his computer. “Can’t believe I’ve become so pious in my old age.”

“Jean-Luc has been a good influence on you,” she told him with a smile.

“Yes, he has, unfortunately,” Quilleran admitted. “See you tomorrow, Roberta.”

Once outside the newspaper building, he headed for the end of the block where his car was parked, at a brisk walk. Darkness was starting to fall, as the country was still on Standard Time. So when he bumped into a slender, young blond man in a Burberry trench coat, he didn’t recognize him as the same man he’d bumped into that morning. “Oh, hello!” the handsome young stranger said, leaning close to him and smiling brightly. “Fancy seeing you again! Have you had dinner yet?”

“No, I’m going home to dinner,” Quilleran informed him curtly. He stepped around him to go on his way, but the younger man quickly got in front of him and blocked his way.

“Why don’t you let me take you to dinner? I’m new in town and I’m so lonely.” He made eyes at Quilleran and smiled at him in a way that left him in no doubt of the other man’s sexuality.

Quilleran didn’t like being made in public, especially by someone as effeminate as this. He preferred macho gays like himself, as well as the refined manners of educated men like his husband. No way was he going to be tempted to cheat on Jean-Luc by this little creep! So he blew him off with a snide remark. “Well, if you’re so lonely, why don’t you try The Ready Room?” he asked, naming the most notorious gay bar in town, where he’d spent many a happy hour during his single days. “I guarantee you won’t be lonely there for long!” He then brushed past the astounded blond and resumed his brisk walk to his car down the street.

The blond stood there on the sidewalk of the rapidly darkening street staring after him, looking insulted as well as confused.


	3. Chapter 3

“THE BAD SHEPHERD"  

CHAPTER 3 of 15

_“See the smile awaitin' in the kitchen,_

_Food cookin' and the plates for two,_

_Feel the arms that reach out to hold me_

_In the evening when the day is through.”_

"Summer Breeze” by Seals and Crofts, 1972

WEDNESDAY, 6:15 p.m., MARCH 21st, 2012

The sweet and savory smells of cooking greeted Quilleran before he even opened his apartment door. His mouth watered and his empty stomach reminded him loudly that it had been a long time since lunch. As he entered, the clock on the wall by the bathroom door was striking the quarter hour; the big hand was on the three and the little hand was on the six. He heard voices in the kitchen, one of them a child’s, and he knew that their downstairs neighbors, Bettina Torres-Paris and her daughter Miral, were here for their bi-weekly tea party/cooking lesson.

After hanging his red parka up on the coat tree by the door, he strolled into the kitchen to find his husband helping a sturdy ten-year-old girl with a headful of unruly dark curls apply icing to a tray full of fairy cakes on the kitchen counter. The child’s mother was carefully removing a large cooking sheet with two chicken pot pies on it from the oven. “Hi, Q!” said the little girl cheerfully, her smock apron liberally dusted with flour and smeared with pale yellow icing, a smear of icing on her nose, which was as prominent as her cheekbones, a sign of the Taino Indian blood she’d inherited from her Puerto Rican mother.

“Hi yourself, Miral,” he said to the child who’d been named after both her grandmothers, Mira and Alice. “What’s Jean-Luc teaching you to make today?” He reached out to wipe the icing from her nose with his right index finger. Putting the finger to his lips, he licked it clean and found it tasted like lemon. “Mmm, you taste good enough to eat!”

The child laughed as Picard finished wiping her face clean with a moist paper towel. “At least most of the icing wound up on the fairy cakes,” he remarked, appraising their finished project; three out of the six fairy cakes had pale yellow icing poured over them as generously as pancake syrup over a short stack, while the other three had just enough icing poured over them to cover the top and dribble over the sides, stopping short of the waxed paper they rested on. “Just let me fill them with lemon cream now.” He picked up what appeared to be a large hypo and inserted the tip into the hollowed-out center of each fairy cake, which he squirted full of lemon cream. He then covered the holes with a little more lemon frosting. “There, now you just have to add the sprinkles,” he told Miral.

“Okay,” she said and reached for a candy dish filled with pastel pink, yellow and blue sprinkles and dribbled them all over the fairy cakes between the outspread wings, which was really the top of each cake cut off and split in half and carefully pasted on top with icing on a diagonal. She regarded them proudly while Picard nodded in approval.

“That looks lovely, Miral. I’m sure your daddy will love his fairy cake.”

“I hope he likes the chicken pot pie too,” said Bettina as she removed her oven mitts. She had placed the cooking sheet with the pies on the little work table by the kitchen window to cool, a few feet away from the counter where the pastry chiefs were working. She was a slender Puerto Rican of medium height, with short, dark auburn hair that insisted on curling in every direction despite all the styling gel she put on it. Her prominent nose and cheekbones and chocolate-brown eyes hinted at stubbornness, while the dimples in her cheeks kept coming and going as her mood changed.

“Don’t worry, Bettina, no hungry man would turn down such a succulent pie,” Picard assured her.

“Even during Lent?” Quilleran quipped as he savored the smell of the pies. He knew that one of them was meant for his and Jean-Luc’s dinner, as was usually the case when he taught Bettina to cook.

“It’s not Friday, love. And besides, they’re both chicken.” He didn’t eat red meat during Lent and of course refrained from all meat on Fridays during Lent.

“Well, after Easter I hope you show me how to make it with lamb,” Bettina told him. “There’s always a lot of leftover lamb at our place after Easter Sunday.”

“Daddy likes leg of lamb,” Miral explained to Quilleran.

“Leftover lamb is perfect for pot pie,” Picard assured Bettina. “It can also be made with canned tuna or salmon, or even veggies.”

“Yuck!” said Miral, with a face that made Quilleran laugh.

“Now, now, young lady,” Picard told her with mock sternness, “remember that veggies are good for you. They can fill you up and save you money when you can’t afford meat.” Quilleran knew that he spoke from experience, having been forced to feed many people on little money when he was a Franciscan friar in a homeless shelter.

“I know that veggies are good for me. I can eat a salad when I have to,” Miral told him. “But I still think that veggies ain’t food, they’re what food eats.”

“She gets that from her father,” Bettina told them as she took off her apron, revealing blue jeans and a black sweater with a red heart embroidered on the upper left corner of her chest. “He’s a meat and potatoes man.”

“Well, there’s enough meat and potatoes in these pies to satisfy even him. Now take your pie and your fairy cakes and hurry home before Eugene arrives.”

Miral giggled. “Daddy hates to be called Eugene.”

“Well, he’d jolly well better get used to it while I’m around,” Picard told her. “It is his Christian name, after all.”

Bettina smiled along with Quilleran; both knew that her husband wouldn’t dare object to his husband calling him by his Christian name. Not after Picard had saved Bettina from being mugged in the basement laundry room, only two days after moving in with Quilleran. Miral had been with her at the time and had seen how he had dealt with her mother’s assailant. The then 9-year-old girl had screamed for help while watching her mother try to break out of the choke hold of a tall, scrawny young black man who held a knife to her throat and demanded money. Picard had been on the other side of the laundry room sorting through his and Quilleran’s dirty clothes, but had come running when he heard the child screaming and her mother swearing in Spanish, while the mugger threatened to kill them both if they didn’t shut up. He hadn’t taken Picard seriously at first. As the older man came running up, he’d dismissed him contemptuously, saying “Mind your own business, grandpa!” That was his first mistake.

Picard had replied, “I’ll give you grandpa, you young punk!” before punching him in the face. The surprised mugger had immediately let go of Bettina to threaten Picard with the knife. That was his second mistake. Picard had merely grabbed his wrist and bent it backwards, making him scream in pain as he dropped the knife. Picard had then flung him against the nearest wall, which he had bounced off of, right into Picard’s fist again. His own feeble attempts to throw a punch--he wasn’t so tough without his knife--had been easily ducked by Picard, who was shorter as well as older than his opponent, but who managed to throw him up against the wall again and beat him mercilessly, using his unshaven face for a punching bag. He’d left the mugger lying on the concrete floor with a bloody nose while he tended to the young mother and comforted her child. Eventually 911 was called. When the police arrived, they found the mugger sitting in a corner tied up with his own belt, a dazed look on his face and a dirty sock stuffed into his mouth, while Picard held a cold compress of wet paper towels to the knife cut on Bettina’s throat, as they sat on the bench before the machine she’d been unloading when she was attacked. Miral had been sitting beside her, hugging her mother tightly as Bettina stroked her hair comfortingly.

When Bettina’s husband, Detective Eugene Paris, heard on the police radio that a woman had been assaulted in the basement laundry of his own building, he had raced to the scene to find his shaken wife with a small cut on her throat, which the paramedics had already bandaged, but otherwise unharmed, and his child tearfully glad to see him. She had jumped into her father’s arms and hugged his neck like the little monkey he called her, while she told him about the nice man who had helped mommy. Detective Paris had thanked the nice man profusely, and shared a laugh with his fellow officers when the uniformed cops who’d responded to the 911 call had taunted the mugger for letting himself get beaten up by a man old enough to be his father. Even discovering that his wife’s savior was gay hadn’t disenchanted Paris; he’d admired him all the more for his courage. Finding out that Picard’s intended husband, the reporter who lived upstairs, had been the one who helped his young cousin Tom in New York City when he was nearly molested by a priest at his school, hadn’t hurt either.

It turned out Detective Paris and his family lived downstairs in 2C. So after the straight and gay couples got to know each other better, Bettina let her daughter come upstairs to 3P twice a week after school, so that she could take tea and cooking lessons with Jean-Luc while Bettina took her evening college classes in nursing. She always joined them after her classes to share the lesson or what had been made. The Paris family had also been invited to their wedding, when Miral agreed to be the flower girl.

Now, as Bettina put one of the chicken pot pies on a tray covered with aluminum foil and wrapped the foil around the pie to keep it warm, Quilleran eyed the remaining pie hungrily. Picard helped Miral take off her soiled apron, revealing jeans and a pink sweatshirt that said “Princess in Training” over a tiny tiara studded with rhinestones. When he saw how Quilleran was looking at the pie he laughed and said, “Yes, love, we’ll be having dinner soon. Just let me see the ladies off.”

“Okay, I’ll set the table and feed the cat, if you haven’t already.” Isis had appeared and was sitting hopefully by her food and water bowls in the corner by the sink.

“You’d better feed her first. I’m sure she’s convinced that I’ve neglected her shamefully while the ladies were here.” Quilleran proceeded to fetch a can of cat food from the cupboard, making sure it was chicken, while Picard helped Miral put the three fairy cakes she’d frosted into a box. With dinner and dessert in hand, Bettina and her daughter left to greet husband and father when he got home from work at the local police station. Quilleran left Isis scarfing down chicken with gravy while he went to the door to say goodbye. After watching the Paris ladies walk to the elevator, Picard closed the door and welcomed his husband home more affectionately than he had upon his arrival. The long, sweet kiss that followed almost made Quilleran forget how hungry he was. His stomach reminded him with a loud growl. Startled, Picard pulled back from his embrace to regard him with astonishment. “Why didn’t you say you were that hungry?”

“I just did. At least my stomach said it for me.” His stomach let out another growl, which made them both laugh. “All right, I’ll set the table and we’ll see how the pie turned out.”

Soon they were seated at the round table in the dining alcove, eating chicken pot pie with freshly warmed sourdough bread. Quilleran spread his slice thickly with unsalted butter, Picard buttered his more lightly; he usually ate his bread unbuttered, but allowed himself a bit now and then on really good bread, usually one that he’d made himself. While sipping his Earl Gray tea between bites, he remarked, “That story you were telling me this morning has been at the back of my mind all day.”

Quilleran paused as he prepared to cut himself another piece of pie. “You mean Gary’s murder?”

“Yes, and how you solved it. So what did happen after Gary’s funeral?”

Quilleran sat back, took a long drink from his bottle of Foster’s Ale and sighed at the nearly empty bottle. “Before I begin, I’m going to need another drink to fortify myself.”

“Fine, I’ll bring you another ale. But you’re not leaving this table until you finish telling me your tale.”

“Can I have some more pie too?”

"Yes, yes, help yourself while I get your drink.” Picard left the table with his own empty mug, allowing his husband to cut himself another piece of pie, which oozed gravy along with mushrooms, peas, carrots and potatoes. This required him to cut himself another piece of sourdough bread as well, to mop up the gravy. After buttering it thickly on one side, he used it to push stray pieces of pie filling onto his fork. While he was stuffing his face, Picard returned with a tall bottle of Foster’s Ale, which he deposited in front of Quilleran. He also had a fresh mug of Earl Gray tea in his hand. “All right, now talk!” he commanded as he sat down beside him.

After thoroughly chewing and swallowing his current mouthful, Quilleran took a long sip of Foster’s and proceeded to do so...

********

SATURDAY, 8:45 a.m., SEPTEMBER 17th, 2005

The day after Gary’s funeral, Quilleran stood at the round dining table going through a cardboard box filled with his late husband’s things. He’d been allowed to clean out Gary’s desk on the Monday morning after his murder. After bringing the box home and dropping it in a corner of the living room, he hadn’t touched it for the rest of the week. During that time, he’d been trying to make funeral arrangements. He’d gone first to Saint John the Apostle Church with Roberta on Tuesday morning, since Gary had attended services there regularly. Much to his surprise, Father Jerome, who’d been so sympathetic at first upon learning of Gary’s death, suddenly became quite cold and hostile when he learned the exact nature of the relationship between Gary Seven and his friend John Quilleran, who occasionally accompanied him to mass. As he sorted through Gary’s things, he could still hear the priest’s pompous words:

“I’m sorry, Mr. Quilleran, but I cannot, in good conscience, allow a funeral mass in my church for a known homosexual.”

“What do you mean, your church?” Quilleran had demanded, feeling overheated in his best black suit. “Churches aren’t country clubs! You can’t exclude people for what they are! Gary’s been coming to this church for over ten years and you’re only now finding out that he’s gay?”

“Father Jerry, please!” Roberta had pleaded, looking paler than usual in her little black jersey dress. “Gary loved this church! He would have wanted to have his funeral here.”

“And I would have liked officiating at his funeral, Miss Lincoln. But you know the church’s position on homosexuality as well as I do,” Father Jerome had said primly, his plump, pink face with its double chin hovering over his folded hands as he leaned on his elbows behind his desk in his office, where he’d invited Quilleran and Roberta to discuss the funeral arrangements. His short, white-blond hair, cut well above his clerical collar in back, framed his shaven face neatly, as his pale, blue eyes regarded them coldly above his thin-lipped mouth, now pursed with disapproval. “I simply cannot allow someone who was not in a state of grace to be buried with Catholic rites.”

“He went to confession on the first Saturday of every month!” Roberta cried. “He gave generously every time the collection plate came around! He even loaned me some money to put in it whenever I was short! He volunteered at Christmas to wrap presents and distribute them to the poor people in the parish! How can you say he wasn’t in a state of grace when he died?”

“I’m not denying the man was generous or kind-hearted. But if I had known about his unnatural preferences, I certainly would not have allowed him to serve on the Christmas committee, where he undoubtedly came into contact with many innocent children,” Father Jerome sniffed. “And Mr. Quilleran here has even admitted that he and Mr. Seven were married, shortly after the passage of that erroneous law in May. Such an unnatural marriage is not recognized by the Catholic Church. I cannot allow such a person to be buried with the rites of the church. It would appear as though we were condoning his notorious lifestyle.” The chubby blond priest had sounded extremely self-righteous as he sat in judgment behind his desk, informing Gary’s loved ones that he had no right to be buried like a good Catholic despite doing his best to behave like one while he lived.

Seeing him sitting there looking so holier-than-thou while his heart was still bleeding over Gary’s loss made Quilleran go a little crazy. “Now see here, you fat parasite!” he had snapped. “You call yourself a Christian, yet you dare to pass judgment on me and my husband for being in an unnatural relationship? What could be more natural than for two people in love to get married and live happily together?” The rest of the conversation had gone downhill from there. Roberta had tried to play peacemaker, but both men had stuck to their guns, Father Jerome defending the honor of the church he served while Quilleran defended the honor of the man he loved and the sanctity of their marriage. The priest had finally gotten fed up with his insults and ordered him out of his office. By that time, Quilleran had been glad to leave. On his way out, he had turned back to deliver one final parting shot to the priest who refused to allow his beloved Gary to be buried with the rites of his church.

“Your Jesus ate with whores and tax collectors! He was friendly with Roman soldiers despite the fact that they were part of an occupying army in his country! And he never married, during a time when all good Jewish men were supposed to be married! He spent all his time hanging out with his twelve buddies, especially the youngest one, who this church is named after! He even referred to himself as The Disciple That Jesus Loved!”

“Saint John was known as the disciple that Jesus loved because he had a deep understanding of Jesus’ teachings, which was rare for one so young!” Father Jerome had replied indignantly. “There has never been any mention in the scriptures of Our Lord having anything but a platonic relationship with any of His disciples!”

“Oh, really? Well, Father, like the song says, ‘The things that you’re liable to read in the Bible, they ain’t necessarily so’,” said Quilleran, quoting from Porgy and Bess. “And don’t forget when the early church fathers were choosing the texts to be included in the Bible, they left out a lot of material from people whose views of God didn’t agree with theirs. You have heard of the Gnostic Gospels?” Quilleran had smirked at the spasm of rage that had distorted the priest’s fat face at the mention of these heretical texts, rejected by all conventional Christians, but cherished by scholars and skeptics like himself, determined to find the truth about the origins of Christianity. “I’ll find some funeral home that’s less discriminating to bury my husband, since you’re so opposed to unnatural relationships. Oh, and speaking of unnatural relationships, what do you think of your fellow priests who’ve been accused of molesting young boys? Which neither Gary nor I have ever done, despite the unnatural desires which attracted us to one another. At least men like us now have the right to marry, which even Saint Paul agreed was better than burning with desire. Too bad your church won’t allow you to marry yet. You’ll just have to burn in this world as badly as you will in the next one, for denying my husband his rites.”

After delivering this satisfying pun, he had walked out proudly, followed closely by Roberta, swearing loudly that she was never going to any of Father Jerry’s masses again. By Thursday they had found a funeral home outside Saint John’s parish where they didn’t ask questions about the personal life of the deceased; they just made sure that the service would be private, presided over by a minister from a gay-friendly church, recommended by one of his and Gary’s mutual friends. Roberta kept her word and stopped going to the 8:00 a.m. mass at Saint John’s at which Father Jerome was the celebrant. She went to the 11:00 a.m. mass instead, presided over by an older black priest named Father Joseph, who eventually became the new rector of Saint John’s after Father Jerome was forced to resign, due to a scandal involving him and the female soloist of the church choir.

Returning to the present, he looked down at the two objects he was holding in his hands; Gary’s coffee mug, which Roberta had always kept filled while he was at his desk, and the little fake flower Gary had shown him on the morning of his death. The mug was white and had a big, black letter “G” with the number “7” alongside it. He put it lovingly aside and looked at the flower, which he now remembered was really a recording device. Holding it up to the light, he found the controls Gary had shown him and pressed the “Rewind” button. After a while he pressed “Stop”, then “Play”, and listened carefully.

He heard Gary’s beloved voice coming from the flower, speaking soothingly: “There, there, everything's going to be all right.”

It was followed immediately by a young girl’s voice, choked with sobs. “No, it isn’t. Daddy’s dead and Mommy’s going to jail for killing him. But she’s innocent! I know she didn’t do it. But if I tell them who did it, my uncle will go to jail. And it’ll just kill Grandpa!”

Gary spoke to her comfortingly while she cried, explaining how her uncle could find a good lawyer who would make the jury believe that he had no choice but to shoot his rotten brother, after he had threatened him with a gun first. He called it poetic justice that her father had been shot with his own gun, and urged her to go to the police first thing in the morning and tell them everything she had seen and heard, when she’d walked into the library in her grandfather’s mansion and found her father threatening her uncle with a gun. She’d stayed out of sight and kept silent, afraid of what would happen if her bad-tempered father saw her. He was a harsh disciplinarian, who used to beat her and her mother for the slightest transgression. He had also beaten up his brother and spoken harshly to his elderly father during a disagreement over the old man’s will. The argument she had walked in on was about their father’s will and how his brother was getting an unfair amount of the estate, despite having been away for so many years, while her father had stayed at home managing the business empire her grandfather had built up since the 1950’s, after getting in on the ground floor of the electronics industry.

Her uncle had reminded her father of his greed, embezzling so much of the money their father had entrusted him with, and his cruelty, stealing the only woman his brother had ever loved and abusing her during their marriage, along with the child she had bourn him. Her uncle had finally lunged at his brother and tried to take the gun from him. Both men had fought over the gun until it went off. Her father had fallen down dead, and her mother had come running into the library to find her brother-in-law standing over her husband’s body with the smoking gun. The girl had slipped out of the library before her mother had seen her, but not before overhearing her mother urging her uncle to give her the gun and get out of the house, telling him to go to their family business and give himself an alibi by letting the late-working employees and the security guards see him working diligently in his office, while she took the blame for shooting her husband.

“Don't worry, this will stay between us,” Gary reassured her. “Nobody will know you came to me. Go straight home now, your mother must be worried.” The girl thanked him, a little more calm now that she’d cried herself out, and Quilleran heard her high heels clicking as she left Gary’s office. A short silence followed, during which Gary sighed and turned off the recorder. Quilleran listened to tape hiss for a few seconds to see if there was anything else on the tape. Then suddenly he heard Gary’s voice saying, “What are you doing here, Mr. Soong?"

He heard a man’s voice, saying in a nervously high-pitched tenor, “Was she here? Was my niece here?”

“Yes, she was. She just left,” said Gary.

Soong started yelling at Gary. “What are you doing? Why are you dragging her into it? She’s innocent! You have no right to get her involved!” Gary tried to calm him down, but he kept ranting on, saying she didn’t know the real story and he didn’t want her to know, and that nobody needed to know about their family business. Quilleran knew he wasn’t talking about the electronics business his father had built; he now remembered that the man Gary had interviewed earlier that day was named Lawrence Soong, and it was his brother Loren who had been found murdered. Loren’s wife Tasha had been charged with the murder after the police had found the gun with her fingerprints on it in their bedroom, where she claimed to have been when she heard a shot downstairs.

Gary talked about the public's need to know and how Soong had already given his permission the first time he was interviewed. Then Soong said, “I can't let you do this. I won't let you drag her into it.” The next thing Quilleran heard was a shot, followed closely by another shot. He listened to the murderer’s footsteps retreating, growing fainter in the distance, then the muffled boom of the fire exit door opening as he escaped down the rear stairs. The tape kept running long enough to record Gary’s dying groans. The last thing Quilleran heard him say was his nickname, “Q—”, followed by a last gasp as he collapsed in his chair. The rest was silence as the tape ran on for a few more seconds, until it came to the end, where it stopped.

With tears in his eyes, Quilleran collapsed into one of the chairs at the round table, staring at the little plastic daisy in his hand like it was the Holy Grail. “Gary,” he whispered, picturing his beloved husband staring at their wedding photo on his desk in his final moments. That must have been why his name had been the last thing he’d said before dying. “Gary, my love...” His sweet, sneaky love, who had the presence of mind to turn on this recorder when his unexpected visitor showed up. “Now I have proof of who killed you. I’m going to nail him to the wall.” He kissed the plastic daisy recorder and reached for his cell phone to call Detective Arbuthnot. Then he changed his mind and decided to take care of this himself, after making a copy of the recording for the cop, in case he wound up on the wrong end of Soong’s gun too.

********

WEDNESDAY, 8:40 p.m., MARCH 21ST, 2012

Quilleran drank the last sip of ale in his bottle as he finished his story, while his husband regarded him with wonder. “What a lucky break for you, finding Gary’s little flower recorder! But why didn’t you go to the police with it?”

“Because I wanted to confront Gary’s murderer myself, and ask him why he found it necessary to kill a man who was trying to help his niece save her mother from a murder rap. If he hadn’t shot Gary, he might have gotten off with a manslaughter plea and a light sentence. Or his father’s money might have gotten him into a private mental hospital, if he pleaded insanity. He didn’t have to kill Gary to help Tasha beat the rap, even if she was the only woman he ever loved.”

“I believe he was trying to protect the girl as well. Did she ever go to the police and tell them what she witnessed on the night of the murder?”

“No, I found out he had talked her out of going to the cops. Her mother was already out on bail, and the family lawyer thought that she could beat the rap if they proved how abusive her husband had been. He wanted to make it look like she’d shot him in self-defense, after he started knocking her around again. Apparently she still had bruises from the last beating he had given her, when she asked him for a divorce. The lawyer was going to say that his client had been forced to shoot her husband after confronting him in the library with proof of his infidelity and demanding a divorce again. That’s when he pulled the gun on her and told her he’d kill her if she ever left him. So they fought for the gun and it went off and he wound up taking the bullet meant for his wife. His twin brother Lawrence was working overtime, and Holly, the daughter, was upstairs in her room, doing her homework while listening to music on her iPod, so neither of them could have seen or heard anything that night.”

“What about the father of the twins? What was he doing while all of this was going on?”

“You mean Doctor Noonien Soong, the head of Positronics, Inc.?” Quilleran smiled cynically. “He had already lost one son and he wasn’t going to lose another. He was prepared to lie himself blue in the face and swear that his son Lawrence was working overtime that night with him. Even his chauffeur was willing to testify that he had driven both men to the office that morning and driven them both home that same night. Obviously he didn’t know that Lawrence had left the office earlier and returned after the shooting in the library of the family manse.”

“The accidental shooting,” Picard reminded him. “I believe this Lawrence Soong was basically a good man who got in over his head. In his desire to protect the woman he loved, he followed his niece to the newspaper’s building that night to try to convince her not to tell anybody what she had seen. When he discovered he was too late, he confronted Gary to try to convince him not to write about what he had learned. If only he hadn’t been carrying a gun, I believe Gary might have been able to talk him into turning himself in.”

“Well, he never got a chance,” Quilleran said bitterly.

“Yes, I know, love.” Picard patted his arm comfortingly. “Gary’s shooting was no accident. But it might have been prevented if Lawrence Soong hadn’t been as hot-headed as his brother.”

Quilleran sighed, upended his empty bottle to drain the last few drops and put it down with a thump. “Give me another drink and one of those fairy cakes of yours. I could use something sweet to take the bad taste of this memory out of my mouth.”

“Of course, love.” He left the table and went to the kitchen with his now empty mug to fetch dessert and drinks. As soon as he left, Isis jumped up on the table. She had been lying in one of the chairs across from her two daddies, listening while Quilleran talked about Gary’s murder. Now she strolled across the table and bumped her head against Quilleran’s arm, mewing softly.

_*When are you going to tell him the rest of the story?*_  Isis asked, staring at him earnestly with her big, golden eyes. _*He deserves to know why Lawrence Soong went berserk that night when he confronted Gary. It wasn’t just Tasha he was protecting.*_

“Yes, darling, I know we’re neglecting you,” Quilleran said as he stroked her. The disappointed pussy lay down on the table and rested her head against his left arm, letting him stroke her while she purred, to comfort herself as well as him. When Picard came back, he put down a fresh bottle of ale and a saucer with a fairy cake in front of Quilleran. He got himself a fresh mug of Earl Gray and another fairy cake, and they both settled down to enjoy their dessert, while Isis went to the opposite side of the round table to nibble on the kitty treats Picard had left for her. Afterwards she lay there licking her front paws clean, using them to groom herself behind her ears, while wondering if Daddy Q meant to tell Daddy Jean-Luc the whole story behind Daddy Gary’s murder.


	4. Chapter 4

“THE BAD SHEPHERD"

PART 4 of 15

“Because something is happening here, but you don’t know what it is, do you, Mr. Jones?"

_"Ballad of a Thin Man",_ Bob Dylan, 1965

FRIDAY, MARCH 23RD, 10:48 A.M., 2012

On Friday morning, Quilleran was sitting at his desk in The Boston Globe building when he got a call from Father Joseph. “I got it, Q!” he said excitedly. “I got an answer to my letter from Father McKenzie.”

“Is it handwritten?” Quilleran asked anxiously.

“Yes, it is.”

“Yes!” Quilleran’s left fist shot up into the air in a gesture of triumph as he clutched his cell phone to his ear in his other hand. “Is it a long letter?”

“No, it’s only one page long, but the handwriting is very distinctive. I’ve already shown it to Sister Edith and she believes it may be the same handwriting she saw on Carol Marcus’ letter.”

“Good! Now all I have to do is see Carol Marcus and ask her to compare this letter to the anonymous letter she received thirty-two years ago.”

“Shouldn’t you call her first to see whether she still has the letter and is willing to show it to you?”

“No, I find it more effective to interview my subjects at home or at work, wherever they feel most comfortable,” Quilleran said as he leaned back in his chair. “Doctor Carol Marcus can usually be found at the astrophysics department of Columbia University, or at the Hayden Planetarium, since she’s an associate there.”

“What about her husband?”

“I found out that he’s working at the Navy Recruiting Center at Federal Plaza. Apparently he re-enlisted after his second marriage, and they put him to work as a recruiter. I think I’ll try to see Carol first. I always liked visiting the planetarium whenever I was in New York. Ever since those spoilsports at City Hall cleaned up Times Square, it’s not easy having fun there anymore.”

Father Joseph chuckled. “You naughty boy! I’m sure you were very familiar with the old Times Square after dark.”

“Oops, sorry! I forgot I was talking to a priest,” said Quilleran, grinning sheepishly. He looked at the small, framed wedding photo on the right side of his desk and thought of how severely Jean-Luc would look at him for being so “cheeky” to a priest. This particular photo had been taken by Quinn on his cell phone, at the moment when Quilleran had slipped the wedding ring on Jean-Luc’s finger. They were both in tuxedoes, each of them had a best man, Quinn for Quilleran and Will Riker for Jean-Luc. Riker’s little boy Liam could be seen standing off to one side, still holding the pillow on which he’d carried the rings. His mother Deanna and Quinn’s wife Kathryn had both been matrons of honor, and Miral, Bettina Torres-Paris’ daughter, had been their flower girl. All of these people could be seen in the formal wedding photo, taken after the ceremony at the wedding chapel on that June day. But Quinn had taken this photo and had it printed and framed just for them.

As he was looking tenderly at the wedding photo, Roberta came into the office. She had his red travel mug in one hand, filled with fresh, hot coffee, and a bright, red plastic watering can in the other hand. The first thing she did was walk over to his desk and deposit the travel mug on it. He mouthed a silent “thank you” at her before resuming his conversation with Father Joseph. She nodded and walked over to the window, where she proceeded to water the plants lined up on the windowsill. One aloe, one jade plant, one polka dot, and one African Violet, all acquired by or given as presents to Gary Seven before Quilleran came to work at The Globe. He had inherited them when Gary died and hadn’t the heart to get rid of them. But he also hadn’t wanted to take them home, since he had a tendency to kill plants, and Isis had an annoying habit of knocking them off of windowsills. So he kept them here and gave Roberta the responsibility of watering them. As she was doing so, he kept talking to Father Joseph on his cell phone, in between sips of coffee.

Just as they were wrapping up the conversation, Roberta paused and stood looking out the window. Quilleran finally said goodbye and looked up to see his assistant standing at the window, watering can hanging from one hand, the plants forgotten as she stood there staring out at something. “What is it, Roberta? What do you see out there? Has the Naked Cowboy finally come to Boston?” he joked, referring to a popular character in Times Square who liked to play the guitar wearing only a cowboy hat and boots and his skivvies, holding his guitar in a way that gave the illusion of nudity.

She shook her head, honey blonde curls bouncing. “Q, did you say that guy you ran into twice had blond hair and wore a designer raincoat?”

“Yes, he did.”

“Well, don’t look now, but I see a guy like that standing in a doorway right across the street.” She pointed with her free hand. “I think he’s waiting for you to come out.”

“What the hell-?” Quilleran got up and went over to the window. He stood next to her and looked where she was pointing. Sure enough, there was the same blond fellow in the Burberry raincoat he had already run into twice. He was standing in the doorway of a coffee shop, hands in his pockets, looking at the front entrance of The Boston Globe building expectantly.

“Q, I think he’s stalking you,” Roberta said softly.

“We’ll see about that!” His face had taken on its determined expression. “Get your coat, Roberta. We’re taking an early lunch so we can have a little talk with our friend out there.”

“Okay,” she said, setting down the watering can on the floor by the window. “What do you want me to do?”

“Leave with me, pretend to say goodbye to me out front, then go up to him and create a diversion.”

“A diversion?” She looked at him doubtfully. “Q, I don’t think this guy is into women.”

“I know he’s not. It’s a shame, since you look so cute today,” he added, complimenting her on the purple plaid jumper she was wearing over a lavender blouse, with lavender pumps. “But you just have to act as if you’re coming on to him. While you keep him busy, I’ll creep up on him.”

“Oh, okay.” She giggled a little at the thought of getting a gay man all flustered by flirting with him. She and her boss both got their coats, hers a fairly new, sensible navy blue wool with a hood, his the same old red parka he’d had since he came to Boston, now a lot cleaner since his husband had started doing the laundry. So was the old red sweater and black slacks he had on, which he liked wearing in cold weather. After looking in on Quinn and finding he wasn’t in his office, Quilleran left him a brief note explaining why they were taking an early lunch and escorted his assistant to the elevator bank.

When they got downstairs to the front entrance, Quilleran made a big show out of saying goodbye to Roberta and asking her to meet him after work for drinks. She agreed to do so, loud enough to be overheard by the blond man waiting silently across the street, and then she walked away, high heels tapping on the sidewalk as she exited stage left. Quilleran watched her walking away for a few moments before he exited stage right, both of them heading for the corner so they could cross over to the other side and confront the blond man, who was standing outside a coffee shop in the middle of the block.

The blond man drew back further beneath the colorful canopy, hands stuffed in his pockets, watching Quilleran as he crossed the street further down the block. He was so intent on watching Quilleran, he didn’t notice that the young woman he had been talking to was crossing the street on the opposite side and was now walking up to him at a rapid pace. The noise of passing traffic helped to drown out the sound of her lavender heels tapping on the sidewalk.

A cold wind began blowing as she approached the coffee shop, giving her a reason to pull out her bright blue woolen gloves from her coat pockets. She pulled the right glove on slowly, waiting until she was alongside the blond man before she dropped the other glove, practically at his feet. She then stopped and looked around in a puzzled way, as if searching for the glove. The man was oblivious at first, until she spoke to him directly. “Excuse me, sir, have you seen my glove?”

“What?” He looked at her with a startled expression. She held out her one gloved hand to him and repeated the question. He looked down and spotted it immediately. “Oh, is this it?” He bent down to pick it up and handed it to her.

“Oh, thank you! Thank you so much!” She smiled at him as she clutched the recovered glove. “I would just die if I lost either of these gloves! My mother gave them to me for Christmas. She knitted them herself, even though she has arthritis in her hands so bad. I told her not to bother, but she insisted...”

She kept going on and on about her mother while the man smiled and nodded politely, silently wishing she’d go away so he could keep an eye out for Quilleran. Just as Roberta was trying to persuade the man to join her for lunch so she could thank him, he felt a heavy hand grab him by the collar. The next thing he knew, he was being flung against the brick wall of the coffee shop, none too gently. Quilleran loomed over him, looking much taller and more menacing than he had the previous two times he’d run into him. “Okay, mister,” he growled, dark eyes narrowed in suspicion over a hardened jaw, “you better be ready to tell me why you’ve been shadowing me the last few days.”

“Who, me?” the blond man squeaked, hating the way that his voice went up into its far-from-manly register in response to the fear he felt at the sight of Quilleran’s unfriendly face.

“Yes, you! Why do you keep bumping into me? And why were you waiting for me out here? Don’t give me that bullshit about being new in town and lonely, there are plenty of other places where you can meet someone who’s more your type. You’re certainly not my type,” Quilleran rudely informed him.

“But he said that you were dying to meet someone like me!” the younger man squealed, trying to pry Quilleran’s heavy hand off his coat collar. “Please, I was only following orders!”

“Whose orders?” Quilleran demanded.

Behind him, Roberta turned her head and froze as she saw a white-haired man across the street with a camera in his hands, taking pictures of them. She turned back to her boss and said in a low voice, “Q, there’s someone taking pictures of us across the street.”

“What?” He loosened his grip on the blond and looked toward where she was nodding her head. He saw a familiar-looking, white-haired man in a black coat with a camera in his hands. Seeing Quilleran looking in his direction, he put the camera inside his coat and walked away quickly. “Father McKenzie!” Quilleran exclaimed. He turned back to the blond. “Did he put you up to this?”

“Yes! He made me do it!” The blond was shaking in his shoes and sounded like he was going to cry. “He told me to hit on you and make it look obvious, while he took pictures. He wants to blackmail you by letting your boss know you’re gay. Please don’t get mad at me, I had no choice. He knows that I’m gay, and he’s the only one who knows where my boyfriend was transferred to after they found out about us—”

“Let me guess,” said Quilleran, “you’re a Catholic priest and you were having a relationship with one of your students.”

“No, I was a teacher at a Catholic high school. My boyfriend is the priest!”

Both Quilleran and Roberta regarded him in silent astonishment.

********

Quilleran and Roberta sat at a table with their new acquaintance inside the coffee shop, which turned out to be a cozy place with a decent lunch menu. All three of them were drinking beers to help them deal with the shock of what they had just learned, Quilleran his usual Foster’s Ale while Roberta and Kevin Cress, the former teacher, both drank Bud Light. Their table was in a corner in the back, as far as possible from any windows. Quilleran’s cell phone was on the table, propped up on the napkin holder, recording the whole conversation. “So how did McKenzie get you to be his Mata Hari?” Quilleran now asked the younger man.

Kevin, a bit calmer now with half the beer inside him, said sadly as he gazed into the bottle, “I never should have listened to him, but I was desperate. It was bad enough I lost my job and my lover when they found out about us at Saint Stephens’ High School. Damn that little snitch who came back to the classroom after the other kids had left! He had to pick that day to forget his notebook! As soon as he saw us, he went running to the principal!”

“Were you two in a compromising position?” Roberta asked.

“We were hugging.”

“That’s all? No kissing, no nudity, no hands on anyone’s b—I mean, where they shouldn’t have been?” Roberta blushed as she pictured a priest with his hands on Kevin’s butt.

“No, we weren’t doing anything that I would be ashamed to let my mother see. But at the disciplinary hearing the following Monday, they said we shouldn’t have been doing it where the students could see. They fired me and told Jason he was being transferred. After the hearing, they hauled Jason away and wouldn’t tell me where they were transferring him. They wouldn’t even let me say goodbye to him. It’s been six months and I still see his face in my dreams. I don’t understand why they found it necessary to fire us both. I would have gladly left to spare Jason’s job. It’s not as if either of us was a threat to the kids, we were only interested in each other—”

“Just tell us how you met Father McKenzie,” Quilleran interrupted, trying to steer him back on track.

“Yes, Kevin, tell us how he forced you to be the bait in this badger game of his,” Roberta said gently, patting his hand as if he were one of her girlfriends crying over a breakup. His hands were just as soft and manicured as one of her girlfriends’, and his rings were just as pretty. She envied his perfect blond, fashionably trimmed hair and wondered if it was natural.

Kevin sniffled a bit, gave her a grateful look for her kindness, and continued. “After I was fired and Jason was transferred, I spent the rest of the week in my apartment crying in bed, wondering if I was ever going to see him again. Then I started wondering how I was going to pay the rent and my bills. I spoke to a lawyer in the teacher’s union and he told me that Saint Stephen’s had the right to fire me for moral turpitude, because they were a Catholic school and I was expected to conduct myself in a manner that would serve as an example to my students. The best I could hope for was a job at a public school, where they don’t care about your morals as long as you show up on time. Of course most of the students don’t bother to show up, which at least reduces the overcrowding.” He took a long drink from his Bud Lite and set it down with a sigh.

“When did McKenzie show up?” Quilleran persisted. “The second week after the hearing, after I had mailed out a bunch of applications to public schools. He came to see me one morning while I was looking at apartment ads to find someplace cheaper to live. He offered to pay my rent for six months and get me a job at another Catholic school, one that was for girls only, if I would just do this job for him.”

“Did he say why he wanted you to compromise me?”

Kevin gave him a scared look. “He said you were an atheist reporter who wrote scandalous lies about the Catholic Church. He said you got an innocent priest arrested for child abuse in New York, even though there was no proof.”

“That’s a lie!” Roberta said angrily. “There was plenty of proof!”

“He also said you seduced a priest who helped you during your investigation. He said you got him defrocked and that he was forced to leave New York because of the scandal. Nobody knows what happened to him, only that you ruined him to get a story and didn’t care what happened to him afterwards.”

“Well, I know what happened to him. So does Roberta here, and all the rest of my friends. Roberta, will you show him the wedding pictures on your phone, mine’s still recording.”

“Sure.” Roberta got out her cell phone and opened up the photo album. She scrolled through it till she found the pictures she had taken at her boss’s wedding. She held it out to Kevin saying, “That’s Q and Jean-Luc on their wedding day. The _former_ Father Jean-Luc, who was released from his vows a year after he left the priesthood. Voluntarily,” she emphasized. “He wasn’t defrocked, and he wasn’t forced to leave New York. He came here to Boston because it was the only place where they could legally get married. He and Q fell in love while Q was investigating a priest who abused a teenage boy. That poor kid was murdered after he dared to press charges against the priest, by the priest’s uncle, who was a mobster.”

Kevin looked amazed as he scrolled through her phone, looking at the wedding photos. “You really married a priest?” he asked Quilleran.

“ _Former_ priest,” Quilleran reminded him. “And it was his idea to leave the priesthood, not mine. I loved him too much to make him choose between me and God. But he decided he could serve God just as well as a layman, and that he had to resign as a protest against the church’s policy toward priests like Father Romano, who molest kids and get away with it because they have important connections, like Romano’s mobster uncle. It was his friendship with a certain bishop that got Romano transferred to Jean-Luc’s parish after the scandal broke.”

Kevin stared at a picture of Quilleran and Picard kissing after the judge pronounced them legally married, while their friends applauded. “That is so beautiful!” he declared as tears came to his big, blue eyes. Roberta thought he must be imagining himself and his lover Jason in the same position, if only priests were allowed to marry. “But why did Father McKenzie lie to me? He made me think I was defending my Catholic faith by helping to bring you down. He told me it was my penance for ruining Father Jason with my unnatural love for him.”

“There’s nothing unnatural about love,” Quilleran assured him. “And Catholic priests weren’t always celibate. The church came up with the celibacy requirement in the 12th century, to make sure that whenever a priest died he would leave all his money and property to the church, instead of to his wife and kids.”

“What am I going to do now?” Kevin fretted. “Everything Father McKenzie told me about you was a lie. How do I know the promises he made me about the things he was going to do for me weren’t lies too?”

“Has he told you where your boyfriend is yet?” Quilleran asked. “Or gotten you the job he promised?”

“No,” Kevin admitted miserably. “But he did pay my rent for six months.”

“Well, I know what you’d better do now, Q,” Roberta told him. “You better call Jean-Luc and tell him what’s going on, before he gets a plain brown envelope full of photos in the mail. Photos of you and Kevin here meeting after dark, looking like a romantic rendezvous.”

“But that’s silly!” Kevin exclaimed. “There’s nothing romantic about any of those pictures! He blew me off and was so rude to me! He never touched me or made any kind of move toward me. I’m the one who did all the touching.”

“Yes, I remember,” said Quilleran. “But I’m sure the good father will be able to edit them so that they’ll look like you and I are having an affair.”

“Oh, dear!” Kevin’s look of dismay was comical.

“Come on, you knew you were setting me up for blackmail pictures,” Quilleran said scornfully.

“Yes, but I thought that only your boss would see them, not your husband. I didn’t know you were married to Father Jean-Luc.”

“The _former_ Father Jean-Luc,” Quilleran reminded him, becoming exasperated by the need for repetition.

“You’d better borrow my phone,” Roberta said, holding it out to him. “Father McKenzie may be getting those pictures developed even as we speak.”

“Oh, shit!” Q snatched the phone from her at this reminder and quickly dialed his husband’s cell number. He waited anxiously until he heard Jean-Luc’s voice. “Hello, my love, it’s me. Listen carefully...” He explained the situation and warned his husband to expect an anonymous plain brown envelope in the mail, filled with pictures of him and his erstwhile stalker in what appeared to be compromising positions. “He may not even bother to mail it to you. You may find it on our doormat when you get home. If you do, don’t open it. Wait till I get home and we’ll open it together. With any luck, we’ll find samples of his handwriting in there to compare with Sister Edith’s letter.”

“Oh, that reminds me,” Jean-Luc said over the phone, “Joseph gave me the letter he got from McKenzie to give to you.”

“Good! Hang onto it, my love. Guard it with your life. It may be the proof we need to hoist McKenzie by his own petard.” After a few minutes of affectionate banter between him and Jean-Luc, which made Roberta and Kevin giggle, he said goodbye and clicked off, handing Roberta’s phone back to her looking like he wished it would explode in her face like a cream pie. “Are you ready to order lunch, Miss Thing?” he asked, as archly as any annoyed queen. “Or would you rather make fun of me and my husband?”

No, thank you, I like my job too much,” she said, still giggling. “I like your husband too.”

“So do I. Which is why I talk to him like that on the phone, _capich_?”

“Hey, it’s none of my business if you wanna talk mushy to him on the phone.” Roberta picked up the menu and held it in front of her face so her smile wouldn’t annoy him.

“That’s right, it is none of your business,” he informed her. He turned on Kevin, who was still giggling like a schoolboy. “And you’d better chill out too, mister! Or you won’t be having lunch on my expense account.”

“Sorry,” Kevin managed to say somberly after getting his giggles under control.

“That’s better. Now while we eat, we’ll discuss how to send you back to McKenzie making him think you’re still on his side. And I will attempt to find Father Jason for you, in case McKenzie is still lying to you.”

“Oh, would you?” Kevin said eagerly.

“Yes, of course. I tend to be sympathetic to men who love priests.” After stating the obvious, he settled down with his menu and his beer. Eventually they all got lunch and fresh beers, over which they discussed their strategy.


	5. Chapter 5

“THE BAD SHEPHERD”

PART 5 of 15

_“You’re my first love, you’re my last,_

_You’re my future, you’re my past...”_

_“_ All I Ever Need is You”, Sonny and Cher, 1972

 

NEW YORK CITY, NEW YORK

MONDAY, MARCH 26TH, 6:48 p.m., 2012

 

John Quilleran, investigative reporter, sat in his black Chevrolet Impala across the street from a prosperous-looking condo on the Upper West Side, waiting for Captain James T. Kirk to   return home. He’d already seen Doctor Carol Marcus going into the building at six o’clock, toting a shopping bag and a briefcase.

_*Why do even educated women with prestigious jobs feel obliged to make dinner when they get home from work?*_ he wondered. * _Unless she and Kirk take turns, like me and Jean-Luc.*_ He settled back with his extra-large coffee from Dunkin’ Doughnuts and reached for another doughnut hole. Surveillance was a boring job, but having decided that he would have better luck confronting both his subjects at the same time, he wasn’t about to give up now.

His patience paid off at 7:14 P.M., when he saw Kirk coming down the street, also carrying a briefcase, a navy blue trench coat over his Navy uniform. He gave the captain a few minutes to get upstairs and get his coat off before getting out of his car. After checking to make sure he had everything he needed, including Gary’s recorder flower in his suit lapel, he headed for the condo building. 

While Doctor Marcus was busy setting the table, the downstairs buzzer sounded. She called to her husband, “Jim, see who that is, please.”

Captain Kirk finished hanging his coat up in the hall closet and hung his white hat on the hook outside the closet door. He pressed the button on the intercom and said, “Yes, who is it?”

“Captain Kirk, this is John Quilleran,” said a man’s voice over the speaker. “I would like to speak to you and your wife about a private matter.” 

“What private matter?” Kirk was immediately suspicious. He guarded his privacy zealously and was very protective of his wife’s privacy as well.

“It’s about your first marriage, Captain. By the way, Edith Keeler sends you her regards from Boston.”

Kirk’s heart and stomach both did a flip-flop when he heard Edith’s name. He hadn’t even thought of her in so long, he’d been so happy with Carol. Guilt made his voice harsh as he said to the stranger over the intercom, “How do you know Edith?”

“She’s a good friend of mine. Let me in and I’ll tell you where and how I met her.”

Kirk hesitated a moment before agreeing. “All right, come on up.” He pressed the button to buzz him in and stood there brooding while his wife came up to him silently, having replaced her blue suede pumps with a pair of blue slippers when she got home.  

“Who was it?” she asked.

“Someone who wants to talk to me about Edith,” he told her gruffly.

“Edith?” Doctor Marcus’ right hand fluttered nervously to her neck, where she fingered the pearl necklace she was wearing. It had been a first anniversary present from her husband and she wore it often. It went very well with the power suits she had to wear to the university. “Is she all right?”

“I don’t know. Ask him when he gets up here.” Seeing how worried she looked, he took her by the hand and told her earnestly, “If he’s here to make trouble, I’ll throw him out on his ass.”

“Why would anyone want to make trouble, after so long?” But she still looked worried.

Quilleran finally arrived at apartment 4A and pressed the doorbell. He heard a “bing-bong” inside the apartment, followed by a man’s heavy footsteps. The door opened so suddenly that it startled him, revealing a middle-aged man with a compact build in a Navy captain’s uniform, with short, blond hair the color of yellowing autumn leaves, hazel eyes as sharp as an eagle’s, and a determined chin that warned him the captain did not suffer fools gladly. “Well?” he said brusquely, eyeing Quilleran as if he were a door-to-door salesman interrupting his dinner.

“Good evening, Captain Kirk,” Quilleran said pleasantly, ready to stick his foot in the door if necessary. “I’m John Quilleran, a reporter from The Boston Globe. I’m doing an investigative story about a certain Catholic priest whose job is to bring former priests and nuns back to the fold. I understand you and your first wife had an encounter with him back in 1980. Do you remember Father Malcolm McKenzie?”

“Father Malcolm McKenzie?” Kirk said slowly, looking as if he was going to slam the door in his face.

“Yes, the charming fellow who tried to convince your first wife to leave you and go back to being a nun. Which she was forced to do after you left her for your current wife.” He was baiting the captain to see if he still cared about Edith after all these years. 

Kirk glared at him and hissed, “Son of a bitch!” Quilleran wasn’t sure whether he was referring to McKenzie or himself. “Is that what he told you? That sanctimonious asshole! I did not leave Edith, she left me so I wouldn’t have to choose between her and Carol!”

“Jim? What is it?” said a woman’s worried voice from inside the apartment. “Who are you yelling at?”

“Good evening, Doctor Marcus!” Quilleran called to her cheerfully. “I left you a message at the university, but you must not have gotten it. I’m Quilleran from The Boston Globe.”

She came up behind her husband, looking very lovely in a blue sweater and white pearls, with a blue and grey tweed skirt. Her hair was as bright blond as the golden earrings she wore, and her lovely face was still unlined, except for the thoughtful frown she wore. “Oh yes, you’re the one who wanted to interview me about Father McKenzie.”

“Yes, you do remember the priest who meddled with Jim and Edith’s marriage? I believe that he was the one who sent you an anonymous letter.”

Her face tightened as she clenched her jaw. She turned to her husband and said quietly, “Let him in, Jim. We need to discuss this in private.” 

A few minutes later, Quilleran found himself sitting in the living room of a tastefully furnished apartment, where furniture designed for comfort was augmented by feminine touches. An authentic ship in a bottle decorated the mantle, next to a replica of an aircraft carrier; both bore the name U.S.S. ENTERPRISE. Feeling grateful that he had polished his shoes and pressed his good black suit before he left his hotel room, Quilleran leaned back in his comfy chair and fidgeted with the fake flower in his lapel, speaking to the captain and his wife to cover the sound of the tiny recording device being turned on.

“Thank you both for seeing me. I’m not just trying to get a story. This is personal. I believe that McKenzie was responsible for the wreck of Edith’s marriage to Jim here. Edith is a member of the staff of Saint John the Beloved Disciple Church in Boston, where I’m from. She’s also a personal friend. So when I told her and Father Joseph about McKenzie coming around to harass me and my husband, who’s also a former priest, she told me how he had done the same thing to her when she was newly married. I believe it wasn’t long after she told him in no uncertain terms that she wasn’t going to leave her husband that you received an anonymous letter, Doctor Marcus.”

“Yes, I did.” She sat up straight on the sofa next to her husband, hands folded in her lap. “I was working at MIT at the time. I was expecting a packet of information on a project that I was working on. I wasn’t expecting a letter from a stranger telling me that my first love, my baby’s father, was still alive. My father told me he was killed in Vietnam after his platoon was attacked.”

“Your father lied to you, Carol,” Kirk told her grimly. “Just like he did to me, after I finally escaped from that hellhole the Viet Cong put me in.”

“I know about your stay at the prison camp, Captain,” Quilleran told him gently. “I’m sure it wasn’t pleasant.”

“That’s putting it mildly,” Kirk told him, with a wry smile. “It wasn’t the Hanoi Hilton, but it came pretty damn close. Hot and cold running roaches, stale bread and warm water, rats running over your face and nibbling on your toes while you were trying to sleep. Not to mention the charming guards who liked to get your attention by smacking you with their gun butts, and giving you orders in Vietnamese that you couldn’t understand, so they could punish you for disobedience. Oh, and the officers who kept hauling you in for interrogation without warning, asking you the same damn questions over and over again and expecting different answers. I liked to tell them that was the legal definition of insanity in my country, doing the same thing over and over again and expecting a different result, just to get their goat.”

“I’ll bet they hated that. They probably punished you for it too.”

“Yeah, I got put in isolation a lot. I didn’t mind, at least I didn’t have to work in the hot sun that day. I also liked to sing “God Bless America” every time one of ‘em walked by my bamboo cage, which really pissed ‘em off.” Kirk grinned, looking like a naughty schoolboy.

“You always were a smart aleck,” Doctor Marcus scolded him fondly. “That was one of the reasons my father didn’t like you.”

“Oh, really? I thought it was because I was a nobody from the wrong side of town. My father was a Navy officer too, but he died when I was a kid and didn’t leave much for my mother and brother and me. We survived on my dad’s pension and my mother’s waitressing job. When she got promoted to hostess, we thought it was a step up. But Admiral Marcus ate lunch regularly at the restaurant where my mother worked. When he found out I was her son, he considered it proof that I wasn’t good enough to date his daughter. That didn’t stop me from doing it anyway.” He grinned again as he held his wife’s hand, looking at her as if they were still lovestruck high school kids. She smiled as if they still were too.

“Did you know that Carol was pregnant before you left the states?” Quilleran asked, still scribbling notes in his own version of shorthand despite the little recorder in his lapel.

“No, I didn’t find out until after I escaped from that hellhole, along with my buddies, Lenny Barrett and Bones Kelly.” 

Quilleran stopped writing and looked up at him curiously. “Lenny Barrett? Bones Kelly? Do you mean Leonard Barrett and Doctor Dean Kelly?”

“Yes, do you know them?”

“I believe I do.” Quilleran told him about the case of the pedophile priest he worked on two years ago, during which he met his husband, along with a retiree named Leonard Barrett who lived with his wife Marge next door to the late young victim’s mother, and a cantankerous old physician named Doctor Kelly at Brooklyn General Hospital who had operated on the victim successfully, only to see him die before the sun rose.    

“Yep, that sounds like Lenny and Bones all right,” Kirk said cheerfully. “Could you give me their phone numbers? I’d love to get in touch with them again.”

“Of course I will. Now could you please tell me what happened after you came home to the states? It was in 1969, wasn’t it?”

“Yes, it was in February of 1969, on Friday the 14th, Valentine’s Day. I had just gotten shipped home and the first thing I did after I saw my mother and brother—-who managed to avoid the draft by going to medical school—-was head for the Marcus’ house in Scarsdale. I was so glad to be home, on Valentine’s Day too, because I was determined to see Carol and ask her to marry me, if she still cared. When we got engaged on prom night, I gave her my high school ring and promised her that when I got home, we would be married, even if we had to elope. You should have seen the look on old Admiral Marcus’ face when he saw me in my dress uniform, with captain’s bars on my shoulders. Me, the kid he called a loser who would never amount to anything. He stood in the doorway looking at me like he was seeing a ghost. I stood there in the cold with snow starting to fall and said, ‘Good afternoon, sir. May I please see Carol? I’m sorry I haven’t kept in touch with her. They wouldn’t let us send letters from the POW camp I was in.’

“When he finally spoke, he said: ‘Jim Kirk? I thought you were dead.’

“I said, ‘No, sir, I’ve been in a Vietnamese POW camp for the last eighteen months. I only managed to escape a month ago. May I please see Carol?’ I was trying to be polite for her sake, even though I despised her old man as much as he despised me.

“That’s when he pursed up his old man’s mouth and said to me like a snake spitting venom, ‘You’re too late, Kirk. My daughter’s dead, along with the bastard you put into her.’

“I was rocked back on my heels as if he had punched me in the face. I stared at him like an idiot while my heart sank into the pit of my stomach, saying ‘What do you mean, Carol’s dead?’

“He spit more poison at me when he said, ‘You heard me! My daughter died on the delivery table, along with the bastard you put in her, nine months after you left. Now I don’t have a daughter or a granddaughter, thanks to you.’ And then he slammed the door in my face. I just stood there with the snow falling around me, feeling as cold inside as it was outside. All I could think was, ‘ _Carol’s dead. Carol’s dead. The girl I loved and dreamed about every night while I was a prisoner of war is dead. And so is our baby. I didn’t even know we had a baby.’_ ” His halting words and tear-filled eyes made Quilleran see him as the young man he was back then, shocked by the bad news so cruelly delivered by his girlfriend’s father.

“I was away at college,” Carol explained. “I had gotten a full scholarship, as well as a part-time job at the local library, so I wouldn’t have to go home for Christmas or any other holiday. I hated my father for shipping me off to that unwed mother’s home, instead of letting me write to Jim so he could come home and marry me. I was also convinced that the substandard medical care I got at Saint Ann’s Maternity Home was why my baby died. Another reason why I hated my father so much I didn’t want to come home.” Her quavering voice and the tears in her eyes made Quilleran see her as the young girl she was back then, grieving for her dead baby and her lost love. His heart went out to them both.

“What about your mother, Doctor Marcus?” he asked her gently. “Didn’t your refusal to come home hurt her more than your father?”

“I was sorry for my mother, but she was the one who kept defending my father and insisting that he was only doing what was best for me. She never stood up for me, even when I begged her not to send me to Saint Ann’s. And when I found out that she had backed up my father’s lie to Jim—” Her face flushed angrily beneath her carefully applied makeup.

“Whoa, are you saying that your mother told the captain that you were dead too?”

“Yes, when she came home from the grocery store and found Jim on our doorstep, still in a state of shock from the lie my father told him.” She hugged her husband, who hugged her back, looking like a lost child who has found his mother.

“What did the admiral’s wife tell you, Captain?” Quilleran asked, trying to maintain his objectivity despite the pity he felt for them.

“Hell, you might as well call me Jim,” Kirk told him with a shaky laugh. “As for Carol’s mother, I remember standing in the doorway with the snow coming down on me, not even feeling the cold ‘cause I was so numb inside, when Mrs. Marcus came home from the grocery store. I just stood there and watched her drive up in the admiral’s gray sedan, park at the curb and get out with a couple of shopping bags, then come walking up to the door. When she saw me, she went ‘Oh!’ and dropped the shopping bags. Then she said ‘Jim? Jim Kirk, is that you?’ Her face was as white as the snow falling down on us. I found out later that her husband had lied to her too about me dying in Vietnam. That explains why she was looking at me as if she saw a ghost.

“I swallowed my pain and the tears I was longing to shed so I could say to her, ‘Please, Mrs. Marcus, tell me where Carol and the baby are buried. I just saw Admiral Marcus and he told me she died having my baby, and the baby died too. Where are they buried? Please tell me!’      

“She stood there looking at me with her white face and trembling lips, looking so much like Carol I wanted to cry. Then she said, ‘Oh Jim, I’m so sorry. We had Carol and the baby cremated. Her father and our priest both said she didn’t deserve a Catholic burial, after the sin she committed. She didn’t get a chance to confess to a priest before she died, so she wasn’t in a state of grace. And her baby wasn’t baptized, because Alexander (that was the admiral’s name) didn’t want either of them to be buried in sanctified ground. So they were both cremated.’ She said she kept the urn and buried it in their backyard, under the tree where Carol’s swing used to be. But she warned me not to go back there while the admiral was home, because he might get rough with me. She said he was still angry at me for getting Carol pregnant, even though we were secretly engaged. And I believed her.” Kirk took a deep breath and let it out in a sad sigh as he held his wife close. “I believed her, because she was a nice lady who had always been nice to me while I was dating her daughter. _She_ didn’t think I wasn’t good enough for Carol. _She_ didn’t tell me to buzz off whenever I called Carol on the phone, or make comments about my mother’s job and how appropriate it was for a boy like me to learn how to take orders the rest of my life. So when she told me that Carol and the baby had been cremated, I believed her.”

“I wanted to kill her,” his wife said bluntly. “I was so angry, I wanted to kill her. Years later, after Jim and I reunited, I confronted my mother and asked her why she had lied to him when he came to see me that night.”

“Why did she lie to him?” Quilleran asked.

“She was still being the good wife, standing by her man, right or wrong,” Doctor Marcus said bitterly.

“No, Honey, she was afraid of your father,” Kirk told her softly. “When she warned me not to go looking for the urn because he might get rough with me, she wasn’t lying there. He did get rough with me once, when he caught us together after you sneaked out to see me. He also got rough with her quite a few times. I saw the bruises on her face, underneath all that makeup she used to wear. She had bruises on her wrists too. I couldn’t help seeing them whenever she passed me a cup of coffee or a slice of pie when your father wasn’t home.”

She seemed to sag down in her seat beside him, squeezing her eyes shut as she tried not to cry. “Yes, I know she had a hard life with Dad. He used to hit me too whenever I talked back or refused to obey him. But he didn’t hit me as often as he hit her. When I was little, I tried to protect her by standing between them. He just pushed me aside and kept hitting her. When I got older, I used to lie to him and tell him I broke the picture frame or burnt dinner, so he wouldn’t punish Mom for it. All those times I lied for her, to protect her from his violence. But when I needed her to stand up to him, to keep me from being sent away, she wouldn’t do it. She was too afraid of him to protect me, the way I protected her.”

“So both your parents lied to Jim that night, about you being dead. Did they ever tell you that he had come to see you?”

“No, I didn’t find out until I found Jim again, at the address in the anonymous letter I received. I knew he was married, but I just had to see him one more time.” She wiped away a tear running down her right cheek while her husband regarded her tenderly. “When I did, it was as if he had never left. The minute I saw him, I knew I still loved him. I didn’t dare hope that he still loved me--after all, he was married—-but I hoped he still remembered me fondly as the girl he left behind." 

“I remembered,” he told her lovingly. “I remembered you every night during basic training, and when I was sent overseas, and while I was in that hellhole after my squad was captured by the Cong while we were on patrol. When I was still in the states, I used to write to you every week and wondered why you never wrote back.”

“Because my father would burn your letters,” she told him, her blue eyes gleaming with tears and rage. “My mother told me that I received several letters from you, before and after I was sent to Saint Ann’s, but my father always got to the mailbox first, He burned any letters from you and warned her never to tell me about them. And I wasn’t allowed to write to you at Saint Ann’s either. The nuns never let any of the girls write to their babies’ fathers. They insisted that a clean break was best and that it would be harder to find a new home for the baby if the father showed up and made trouble over the adoption. But my mother—-she could have saved your letters and smuggled them to me. I don’t know why she didn’t.”

“She was afraid of him, Carol,” Kirk reminded her, squeezing her comfortingly. “Too afraid to defy him, even secretly. The last time I saw her, when you and I went to confront her after Edith left, she looked like a frightened little bird huddled in her cage. Like one of those little singing birds in tiny cages I used to see being sold in the street market in Vietnam. Those poor little birds were so traumatized, they didn’t have the courage to try to escape from their cages. You could leave the cage door open and they wouldn’t fly out. The venders used to do this whenever they tried to sell a bird to an American, telling us how good they were, how obedient, how easy to train. But they weren’t being good, they were just too scared to fly away. Their spirits were broken. So was your mother’s. Even though your father was dead by then, she still acted as if he’d come roaring into the room and start a fight with me over you.”

She gave a long sigh. “Yes, I know she was traumatized by Dad’s cruelty. Her therapist told me that she had Post Traumatic Stress Disorder, after we went into family counseling. But back then, I despised her for being a coward. I told her so to her face. I called her so many names, and spoke to her so harshly, and she didn’t even try to defend herself. When I finally ran out of things to say, when I couldn’t think of anything else awful enough to call her, she looked up at me with her eyes full of tears. I thought she was going to defend my father again, tell me what a good man he was and how he really loved me, despite all the slaps in the face I got for standing up to him. But she just looked at me with tears in her eyes and said, ‘Oh, Carol, why didn’t you just elope with Jim while you had the chance? It would have made everything so much easier.’ It made me so angry, I almost hit her.”

“I know, I held you back. I could see how mad you were and how sad she was, and I cursed your father in my heart for leaving you both so damaged. Remember what I told you then?”

“Yes,” she sighed again, “you said it was no use punishing her for what my father had done to us. That even though she went along with it, she wasn’t a willing accomplice.”

“No, she was more of a hostage, forced to obey because she feared punishment. She wasn’t just being a good wife, she was just too scared to defy him.”

“Yes, like one of those little birds you described. Poor broken-winged little bird, she could sing but never fly...” She broke down and cried at last while he held her. Quilleran put down his pen and notepad and waited for her to get a hold of herself. He   felt like a heel for recording something so personal. So he pretended to clear his throat, using his cough to cover the sound of the little click as he pretended to brush lint off his lapel and shut off the tiny recording device.

After a while, Doctor Marcus was able to sit up and dry her eyes with a clean hankie her husband provided. While he was murmuring comforting words to her, Quilleran took advantage of the opportunity to turn the little recording device back on, as he cleared his throat to hide the sound of the click. He then resumed the interview. “So, Doctor, did you and your mother ever reconcile?”

“I forgave her,” she said in a shaky voice as she dabbed at her eyes. “But I never forgot what she did. I don’t think she’s ever forgiven herself. We talk on the phone and exchange Christmas cards, but I haven’t been to see her since that time Jim and I went to confront her.”

“And when was this?”

“In May of 1980, Memorial Day weekend. Wasn’t it, Jim?” He nodded as he held her close, with one arm around her shoulders. 

“Had you ever been to see her before that day?”

“Not since my father died in May 1977. Of lung cancer, he was a heavy smoker. I didn’t go see him at the hospital, or at home when they released him to die there. I didn’t go his funeral either, but I did go to the burial at Calvary Cemetery. I wanted to make sure he was really dead.” She clenched the damp handkerchief in her right hand so hard that it trembled, though her voice remained calm. “I never forgave him. I know that Jesus says you’re supposed to forgive your enemies, but I still hated him for what he did to me, to my baby. I’m sure he would have lived if I had gotten better medical care then what I got at Saint Ann’s.”

Quilleran nodded sympathetically, then something clicked in his memory. Frowning thoughtfully, he said, “Jim, when you came to see Carol on New Year’s Eve, what exactly did the admiral say when he lied to you about her being dead?”

Kirk snorted impatiently. “I told you, he said that his daughter had died on the delivery table, along with the bastard that I put in her.”

“But then he said something else, before he slammed the door in your face. Do you remember what it was?”

“Yes, he said ‘Now I don’t have a daughter or a granddaughter, thanks to you.’”

Quilleran pounced on this like Isis on a mouse. “That’s it, he said ‘granddaughter’! But you had a baby boy, didn’t you, Doctor?”

“Yes, I did.” Now she looked puzzled. “Why would Dad say ‘granddaughter’? He must have been confused.”

“Surely the home would have notified your parents when you gave birth and what you gave birth to.”

“Yes, but my baby died the same day he was born. So did another girl’s baby. She gave birth at dawn, the same time that I went into labor. But her baby was stillborn, poor thing.”

“Was the stillborn baby a girl?”

“Yes, it was. Perhaps Saint Ann’s got the papers mixed up and sent my folks the dead baby’s birth and death certificates.”

“Did you find those papers among your father’s things when you went to his funeral?”

“No, I didn’t go to the house. I went straight to the cemetery.”

“But your mother would still have those papers, wouldn’t she?”

“I didn’t ask. I was more concerned with making sure my father was dead and getting satisfaction for the way he treated me.”

“And how did you do that?”

“She spit in his grave,” Kirk said proudly. “Told the old bastard what she thought of him too.”

“In front of all the mourners?” Quilleran said in mock disapproval. He admired her spirit, which was obviously unbroken by her father’s cruelty, unlike her poor mother’s.

“No, they had already left by the time I got there. Only my mother and the parish priest saw me spit into the open grave, right on top of all those flowers on his coffin, and heard me say ‘Burn in hell, Daddy. I hope you sizzle like a chicken on a barbecue spit, for what you did to me and my mother and my baby.’ The priest scolded me for being an undutiful daughter. I told him to go to hell too, and asked him why he never urged my mother to leave her husband, after all the times she confided to him in confession about the way he treated her. He hemmed and hawed a lot and mumbled something about private family matters and the secrecy of the confessional. So I told him I hoped that he and my father both burned in hell, ‘him for what he did, and you for what you failed to do’. Then I turned and walked away, back to the life I had chosen at Columbia University’s Science Department.”

“Didn’t your mother try to stop you? I’m sure she missed you terribly all those years you were gone.”

“Oh, she called to me, but I didn’t stop. I didn’t even turn around. Even when I heard her running after me, gasping for breath and begging me to stop so she could tell me something, I ignored her and went straight to my car. She was still trying to tell me something as I drove away, but I didn’t hear it. I had the windows rolled up and the radio turned up real loud, so I wouldn’t have to listen to her defending her brute of a husband.”

“Hmmm...”   Quilleran tapped his pen against his cheek, a habit of his whenever he was thinking. “Could it be possible she _was_ trying to tell you something? Not to defend your father, but to explain why he behaved the way he did?”

“Maybe,” she admitted grudgingly. “But whatever it was, it wouldn’t have made me forgive him, or love him the way I used to when I was little. Too little to understand that not all daddies hit their children or their wives when they got mad.”

“I don’t blame you for not mourning your father’s death. He did you wrong and never apologized for it. But maybe he did, and your mother was trying to tell you his last words were ‘Tell Carol I’m sorry’.”

She snorted disdainfully. “It would have been too little, too late. Even if I had been there to hear it, I still would have spit in his grave.”

Captain Kirk squeezed his wife’s hand supportively as he said, “Yes, there’s nothing like feeling the hot breath of your maker on the back of your neck to make you want to set things right before you die.”

“Yes, I’m sure a lot of deathbed confessions have been based on fear of The Almighty, or the fate that awaits one beyond the grave,” Quilleran commented. “Doctor Marcus—”

“Carol, please,” she said, with a tremulous smile.

“Yes, thank you, Carol,” Quilleran said, admiring her courage in the face of her grief. “I’m sorry to put you through all this, digging up your past and all the pain you suffered. But I need to get the goods on this priest who’s hounding me and my husband. He did my friend Edith wrong in the name of his church, and I’m sure he did you wrong as well, when he sent you that anonymous letter.”

“I can’t imagine why he would send me that letter telling me Jim was still alive, when he was among those at Saint Ann’s trying to discourage me from getting in touch with my baby’s father.”

“What?” Quilleran leaned forward, eyes wide with astonishment. “Are you saying you met Father McKenzie?”

“Why, yes. He was one of the priests who used to say mass on Sundays at Saint Ann’s. He was a friend of my father’s. He met him through another friend, who was a prince of the church.”

“You mean a bishop?” asked Quilleran, recognizing the Roman Catholic term. “Which one?”

“Cardinal Spellman. My father met him when he attended his monthly Knights of Columbus meetings at Saint Patrick’s Cathedral. We even attended Saint Patrick’s for a while when we lived here in Manhattan. That’s how my father was able to find a Catholic home for unwed mothers to ship me off to at such short notice. Because the cardinal helped him.”

While Quilleran was still recovering from the shock of this revelation, a loud ringing sound came from the kitchen. “Oh! It’s the meatloaf! Please excuse me.” Doctor Marcus got up and hurried to the kitchen to tend to dinner.

As soon as she left, Quilleran said feebly to Kirk, “Well, I certainly didn’t see that coming.”

“Neither did I,” Kirk admitted. “I didn’t even know that she knew Father McKenzie. I only met him once, when he came to see Edith and me just before our first anniversary. I had no idea that he had ever met Carol.”

“Yes, he seems to make a habit of visiting former priests and nuns on or about their first wedding anniversaries,” Quilleran commented, as his brain started clicking again, as rapidly as his fingers would on the keyboard of his laptop computer. “I wonder if he’s kept tabs on her all these years, as a favor to the cardinal’s old friend Admiral Marcus? Could that be how he knew where to send the letter?”

“It’s possible,” Kirk admitted cautiously. “But Carol’s father was already dead by that time. So why would he bother?”

“Because he remembered your name and your connection to Carol Marcus, and he wanted to make trouble between you and Edith that would lead to a divorce.”

“Well, he sure succeeded there,” Kirk grumbled.

While the two men sat in the living room pondering the enigma that was Malcolm McKenzie, Doctor Marcus came back. Her cheeks were flushed; at first Quilleran thought it was from the heat of the oven as she checked the meatloaf. But it turned out to be from excitement, as she came up to him with an envelope in her right hand and offered it to him. “I found it!” she said happily. “As soon as I turned off the oven, I took a detour to the bedroom and looked in the box at the back of my closet where I keep all my old records. This little beauty was filed under “P” for Poison Pen Letter. That’s what I thought it was when I first read it.”

Quilleran took the envelope from her and studied it closely. It was yellowed with age, but the faded handwriting on the front was still dark enough to read. It was addressed to Doctor Carol Marcus, care of Columbia University Science Department. It had no return address. The minute he saw the handwriting, he felt a thrill of recognition. “Yes, that looks just like the writing on the letter Father Joseph got,” he said to himself. He looked up at her and said, “Do you mind if I read this? I just want to be sure before I compare it to the letter McKenzie sent to my friend Father Joseph.”

“Oh, certainly. Go ahead,” she told him. She resumed her seat beside her husband as he carefully opened the ancient missive.

He spread the single sheet out carefully on the arm of the chair he sat in, squinting to make out the faded handwriting, which was small and crabbed, just like the handwritten address on the envelope. It was dated April 12, 1980 and it said: _“Dear Doctor Marcus, I hope this letter does not cause you any undue distress. But I feel it is my duty to inform you that the boy you knew in high school as Jim Kirk, who was responsible for your disgrace and your exile from home, is now married to a former nun and living on the Lower East Side of New York...”_ The writer gave an address south of Essex and Delancy Streets that Quilleran remembered as far from fashionable back then, but nowadays it had been gentrified to the point where white people didn’t stand out as much. 

The letter concluded, _“You may wish to confront Mr. Kirk yourself, as New York State does not have a Breach of Promise law. I do hope this will give you some satisfaction for the wrong that was done you all those years ago.”_ There was no signature. Quilleran couldn’t resist reading the last paragraph aloud, in a prim and proper voice that reeked of sanctimonious malice. That made Carol laugh bitterly, as a wry grin appeared on Jim’s face.

“He assumed you would still be angry at Jim after all this time,” Quilleran told her. “Most women would be, after being impregnated and abandoned in high school. But you weren’t abandoned, you were engaged to a brave young man who fought for his country and was captured by the enemy, and was a POW for nearly two years. Even if your father hadn’t lied to you, his prolonged absence would have given you reason to believe he was dead. How did you feel when you found out he was still alive?”  

“In a word, shocked,” she replied.

“And did you decide to go to this address to get satisfaction?”

“Yes, I had to go there to see if the writer was telling the truth. After all those years I spent believing Jim was dead, it was hard for me to believe he was still alive. So I went there to find out.”

“And she found me,” said Kirk cheerfully, “puttering around in the apartment, making repairs and putting down roach traps, waiting for Edith to get home from work. She was a social worker at Catholic Charities then. I had just recently rejoined the Navy and was manning a desk at administration while I waited for a permanent assignment. When I heard Carol knock on the door, I thought Edith had forgotten her key. But when I opened it, I got the shock of my life.”

“So did I,” she said. They looked at each other fondly, holding hands as if they were still high school sweethearts. Quilleran was touched; despite his cynical nature, he had a soft spot for lovers of both sexes. 

“You both must have felt as if you were seeing a ghost,” he remarked, remembering how he had felt when he had seen Jean-Luc walking down the street with the Rikers only a few blocks away from Saint Joseph’s Shelter, after having been told he was dead. Of course the crafty Father Romano hadn’t told him outright, he’d simply implied that Jean-Luc had been among the clergy and homeless who had died during the epidemic of swine flu that had swept through the shelter. “What was the first thing you said to him, Carol?”

“I couldn’t say a thing at first. When I finally got my breath back, I said ‘Jim, it’s me, Carol!’”

“And what did you say to her, Jim?”

Kirk let out a long sigh. “When I saw her standing there, I said ‘Carol? I thought you were dead! Your father told me you were dead!’”

“And I said ‘He told me _you_ were dead! Oh Jim, he lied to us both!’ Then the floodgates opened and I started to cry.” She wiped at her eyes again as he pulled her close.

“That’s when you found out Admiral Marcus had lied to you both,” Quilleran said.

“Yes, that’s when I found out that my own father had lied to me, to keep me from marrying the man I loved,” she said from the shelter of that man’s arms.

“I wanted to choke the old bastard,” Kirk said tersely, looking at Quilleran over his wife’s head with eyes like flint. “When Carol told me he was dead, I wanted to piss on his grave.”

After a while, she reluctantly pulled out of her husband’s embrace to continue her story. “When I stopped crying, I asked Jim to tell me everything that happened since he left for Vietnam. So he told me, and it made me cry again. While he was holding me on the sofa, his wife walked in.”

“How did Edith react when she saw you two together?” asked Quilleran, remembering the shining tears in his friend’s eyes as she spoke of that day. As touched as he was by the reunited lovers, he couldn’t help feeling sorry for Edith and the life she might have had with Jim Kirk.

“Oh, she was shocked, of course. At least she didn’t find us in bed together,” Carol said, with an awkward laugh. “But I still felt like the other woman, when I saw how nice she was. Instead of being angry at me for showing up after all those years, she gave us tea and sympathy and listened to our stories. She even asked me to stay for dinner. But by then I was feeling so awkward, so-so guilty, I excused myself and left. I slipped Jim my phone number, in case he wanted to talk some more. But when I left that night, I didn’t think I’d ever see him again. I was just grateful to learn he was still alive and doing well, despite his drinking problem.”

Kirk grimaced. “When she left, I almost went after her. But my conscience told me that wasn’t being fair to Edith. So I stayed and tried to be a good husband to her. But all I could think about was Carol and how she spent thirteen years thinking I was dead. When I started craving a large scotch to help me deal with the problem, I knew I was in trouble.”

“Did you go for counseling?” asked Quilleran, remembering how Father Joseph had recommended it to Edith.

“I discussed it with my AA sponsor. He told me it was my decision to make, which woman I owed more to, and that almost sent me to the nearest liquor store. After two weeks of lying awake at night, calling Carol on the sly, assuring Edith I would never leave her and wondering why I wasn’t man enough to do so, Edith finally put me out of my misery. She could see it was tearing me apart inside, trying to decide between them, so she made the decision for me.” He sighed and ran his fingers through his hair. “I’m ashamed to say I felt relieved at first, when I came home to find her gone and a note saying she was filing for an annulment. I almost had a drink to celebrate. Then I decided to call Carol instead. She came over right away, and we’ve been together ever since.”

“Well, you can’t make an omelet without breaking eggs,” declared Quilleran philosophically, “so I guess breaking Edith’s heart was necessary to mend both of yours.”

“I never meant to break her heart!” Kirk protested.

_*But you did,*_ Quilleran thought. He wisely kept this thought to himself and concentrated on the letter he was holding. “Well,” he said aloud, “I’m convinced that this will be a positive match. I just want to make sure now.” So he reached into his suit jacket and got out the letter Father Joseph had received from Father McKenzie. He held it up alongside the yellowing envelope of Carol Marcus’ letter and found the handwritten addresses on the front of both were in the same handwriting. “Eureka! I knew it!” he crowed.

“They match?” Doctor Marcus leaned toward him eagerly.

“Yes, they do! Thank you, Carol, I finally have proof that McKenzie’s the one who destroyed Edith’s marriage for the glory of the Catholic Church. I already have proof that he’s trying to destroy _my_ marriage, for the same reason.” His dark eyes looked very ugly for a moment as he thought of what he’d like to do to McKenzie. It frightened Carol to look at him; even Jim held her more firmly when he saw that brief, bitter look in the reporter’s eyes. But it cleared up quickly and he was able to smile at them both. “Would you be kind enough to let me borrow this letter, just long enough to get it copied?”

“Oh, I can do that for you tomorrow at the university,” she told him. “Just meet me there at ten and I’ll give it to you.”

“Thank you, thank you! And I urge you to please keep this original locked up, preferably in a safe deposit box. I don’t trust McKenzie not to try something when he finds out what I’m doing here.”

Kirk looked skeptical. “Surely you don’t think a priest is capable of stealing an old letter he didn’t even sign.”

“I think this particular priest is capable of anything. You should have seen what he did to me before I left Boston.” He told them about his stalker and the hidden cameraman, which astounded them both. Then he told them about the night he came home expecting to celebrate his birthday with friends and found McKenzie there, threatening him and Jean-Luc with heavenly wrath for falling in love. Being lovers themselves, they couldn’t help but sympathize with him. When he told them that he was looking for Father Jason to make sure that he and Kevin were reunited, they urged him to go for it. Then he noticed the time and said “Look how late it is! I’m sorry I’ve been keeping you both from your dinner. I’d better go.”

“Why don’t you stay for dinner, Mr. Quilleran?” Carol asked him.

“Well, I was going to settle for a hamburger at Mickey Dee’s before going back to my hotel. But if you’re sure you have enough and you can stand my company for another hour, I’ll be happy to join you.”

“We’ll be happy to have you. Won’t we, Jim?” Her husband agreed with her and they spent the next few hours discussing love and the history of marriage over meatloaf, garlic mashed potatoes and buttered corn niblets. Seeing how happy they were together made Quilleran wonder why they had never had any other children. He was hesitant to ask them, since they had lost their firstborn so tragically _._

_*Maybe Carol can’t have any more children,*_   he thought. _*She said she didn’t receive very good medical care at Saint Ann’s Home. Maybe it damaged her inside, so she couldn’t have any more babies.*_ He felt sorry for this bright, beautiful woman who seemed to have everything in life except the one thing that would have made her reunion with the man she loved perfect. Then he remembered what Admiral Marcus had said to Jim Kirk when he came looking for his lost love. An idea that had been percolating at the back of his mind began to steam and poured itself into the cup of his brain. As they were enjoying dessert, apple pie with vanilla ice cream, Quilleran said as casually as he could, “By the way, Carol, do you mind if I pay your mother a visit? I’m curious to see if those papers she got from Saint Ann’s Home say whether you had a boy or a girl.”

“Yes, I’m kind of curious about that myself,” she admitted as she scooped ice cream onto her husband’s slice of pie. “If they sent her the wrong birth and death certificates that would explain why my father thought I had a girl.”

“Humph! I don’t think your father knew or cared what you had,” Kirk grumbled as he reached for his pie. “As long as you didn’t bring it home. Last thing he would have wanted was a little living reminder of me.”

“Well, I would have welcomed one,” she told him warmly. “Even if it meant going to a public university instead of a Catholic one. Unwed mothers weren’t as accepted in some collages are they are today,” she reminded Quilleran as she passed him his pie. “Especially not Catholic ones.”

“Yes, I remember,” he said. “Gays weren’t welcomed either at first, until the civil rights movement began gaining momentum in the seventies.” He ate his pie silently for a few minutes, then asked, “Was Father McKenzie there when your baby was born? I mean, was he at the home, not present at the birth, of course.”

“No, the only ones present when my son was born were Doctor Felix and Sister Kessandra, who was a nurse, and Sister Annika,” she said as she put ice cream on her pie. “She was a novice who befriended me while I was there. She and Kes were the only ones who showed me and the other girls any real kindness. The other nuns treated us like wayward children in need of discipline, or sinners receiving our just desserts for having sex outside of marriage.”

Quilleran nodded sympathetically. “It must have been hard for you, being so young and far from home, having strangers sit in judgment on you.”

“Not as hard as having to listen to those priests who came every Sunday to perform mass,” she said as she stabbed at her pie. “All their sermons were about sin, suffering and repentance. I became very familiar with Eve, Delilah, Bathsheba, Mary Magdalene and all the other women of the Bible who sinned with men and how God punished them. They seemed to think that just being women made us more apt to sin than men, women being the weaker vessels, you know. And Mother Alice would sit there by the pulpit, nodding in agreement with every word they said.”

“Mother Alice? Was she the mother superior in charge of the home?”

“Yes, she always reminded me of a black vulture, ready to swoop down on any girl who complained. And there was plenty to complain about, let me tell you. The dowdy uniforms they made us wear, the bland food, the boring classes we had to attend so we could graduate from high school, not to mention the classes on childbirth and childcare for those of us who meant to keep our babies. Yes, Mother Alice ran a tight ship, and God help the girl who wasn’t grateful enough to appreciate the sacrifices her parents were making, to insure that her sin was never revealed to the world.”

“This Mother Alice sounds like a real harridan,” remarked Quilleran. “I’ll bet she was a hatchet-faced old maid who became a nun because she couldn’t get a man. She probably envied pretty girls like you, who had obviously managed to attract attention from at least one man.”

She laughed as she held up a forkful of pie. “Yes, she was an old harridan, but I don’t think it was because she envied girls prettier than she was. I think that she just enjoyed the power she had over us. She and her nuns were constantly reminding us why we were there, lecturing us on chastity and how to behave like ladies once we were back in the world, as they put it. Kes and Annie were more practical; they just advised us not to be so quick to trust a man who said he loved us. Kes, in particular, since she was a bit older than Annie, who was just a little older than us girls. Kes used to remind us how Satan fooled Eve with honeyed words and false promises, and how he taught the same trick to men who practiced deception for gain, like our former boyfriends, con artists, and politicians.”

“That was certainly astute of her,” Quilleran commented. “I wonder if she’s still there, giving the same wise advice to other girls?”

“You’ll have to visit the home to find out. If you do, be careful of Mother Alice,” she warned him. “She’s like a spider sitting in the middle of her web. She sees all and knows all, and has ways of finding things out. And she’s very well connected in the church, as well as with certain members of high society, who sent her their pregnant daughters to avoid scandal. They’ll do anything for her, to make sure she keeps their daughters’ secrets. She’s probably as tight with the current cardinal as she was with Cardinal Spellman. At least she gave me that impression whenever she spoke to Father McKenzie. They both sounded as if they knew him well.”

“Really?” Quilleran quirked an eyebrow at her curiously. “And just how did you get close enough to hear them speak so chummy about the cardinal without their noticing you?”

“Who said I let them notice me?” She gave him a mischievous smile that made her look girlish. “I learned to hide myself from adult eyes at an early age, to avoid my father’s heavy hand. I also learned to listen quietly as I hid while adults spoke, to make sure they weren’t planning anything that involved me. That’s how I learned my father was planning to send me away after he found out I was pregnant. And how I found out that he and McKenzie were friends through Cardinal Spellman. You should have heard Mother Alice talking to Father McKenzie about the cardinal, as if he were an old school chum. He probably was. Can’t think of any other reason why a mere nun, even a mother superior, would talk about a prince of the church that way.”

Quilleran went “Hmmm...” as he made a mental note to visit Saint Ann’s Maternity Home as soon as possible. Right after he visited Carol’s mother to ask her a few questions and have a look at her papers.


	6. Chapter 6

“THE BAD SHEPHERD” 

PART 6 of 15

_“Mother, you had me, but I never had you._

_I wanted you, but you didn’t want me._

_So I, I just have to tell you goodbye...”_

“Mother”, John Lennon, 1970

SCARSDALE, WESTCHESTER COUNTY, NEW YORK

TUESDAY, MARCH 27TH, 1:05 P.M., 2012

John Quilleran didn’t often feel guilt in his chosen profession. As a reporter, he felt it his duty to seek the truth wherever it was hidden, to comfort the afflicted and afflict the comfortable. But at this moment, he himself felt extremely uncomfortable. He was sitting in a renovated ranch house, located in a part of Westchester that was populated mostly by Navy families, talking to an older woman who bore a strong resemblance to her daughter, Doctor Carol Marcus, except for her beaten-down look. Deborah Marcus, Didi to her friends, was dressed comfortably in a casual knitted pantsuit with slacks that looked like blue denim. The top was blue and brown, with a design that made it look like she was wearing a suede vest over a long-sleeved tunic. Her hair was carefully colored to look as blonde as her daughter’s, her face carefully made up to hide the signs of age, but Quilleran was still able to make out the signs of stress and sleeplessness. He also caught a whiff of gin, which made him think she was probably self-medicating to help her deal with the guilt she still felt.

“I don’t know why you insist upon raking up this old scandal, Mr. Quilleran,” she said querulously as she sat across from him, her hands with their carefully manicured nails folded across her right knee, which was crossed over her left leg. “My husband is long dead, and my daughter is finally married to the man she loves. Does it really matter that their child didn’t survive?”

“No, Mrs. Marcus, it doesn’t matter that the child died,” he told her as gently as possible. “What matters is that there was a child, and you conspired with your husband to hide its’ existence.”

“We had to! Do you know what a scandal it would have caused, back in 1967, for the unmarried daughter of an admiral to have a baby? Even if she was engaged to the father, who we believed to have been killed in action during that mess in Vietnam.”

“Is that what you really believed, Mrs. Marcus? Or was it what your husband told you?”

“I learned a long time ago not to question my husband about certain things, Mr. Quilleran,” she informed him coldly. “I’m sure my daughter told you what a hard man he was, and how he ran his own home as strictly as the Navy base where he was assigned.”

“If your husband had treated recruits as harshly as he treated you and Carol, he would have been court-martialed long ago,” he informed her sternly.

She glared at him, her old habit of loyalty to her abusive husband hard to break. “He was under a great deal of pressure to turn out fighting men, Mr. Quilleran. Sometimes discipline has to be harsh during wartime, to insure your troops’ survival.”

“But you and Carol were civilians. What was his excuse for treating you like raw recruits?”

“He was punishing insubordination,” she replied stiffly, looking off to one side. “Back then, wives and children were expected to be obedient and respectful of a husband’s authority.”

“And to the Catholic Church’s authority as well, weren’t they?” He eyed her shrewdly, noticing how she flinched when he mentioned the church. “Is that why you didn’t protest when your husband shipped your daughter off to Saint Ann’s Home? Because nice Catholic girls weren’t supposed to have babies out of wedlock back then, and if they did, the church was supposed to help them hide their little problem until it came out and could be put up for adoption. But your grandchild died before it could be adopted, didn’t it?”

Didi’s head whipped around to glare at him angrily. “He wasn’t an ‘it’! He was a beautiful baby boy! Carol named him David after my father, who she adored.”

“So you admit having a grandson!” Quilleran said triumphantly. “Then why did your husband tell young Jim Kirk when he came here looking for his fiancée that now he didn’t have a daughter or a granddaughter, thanks to him?”

She stared at him with a look of surprise on her worn face. “Granddaughter? Why would Alexander say that? He knew that Carol had had a boy.”

“How did he know? Did the home notify you? Did they call you or send you a letter?”

“We got a phone call from Mother Superior Alice Kelly on the evening of the day Carol gave birth. She informed us that our daughter had given birth close to noon that day, to a baby boy, who did not survive. After she assured us that our daughter was still alive, but weak, she said she would be sending us copies of the child’s birth and death certificates, along with a copy of—” She stopped abruptly and coughed as if she were clearing her throat. Quilleran recognized it as a stalling tactic. He guessed that she had been about to reveal something and thought better of it. She continued a moment later, looking off to one side the way she had when referring to her husband’s abuse as “punishing insubordination”.

“A copy of Carol’s grades from their school, so she could re-enroll in high school here without falling behind. She was able to graduate with honors, despite the interruption in her life.” She made it sound as if Carol had merely been ill instead of pregnant. “She left for college in the fall, after spending the entire summer working overtime at her job at the mall, giving me the cold shoulder and avoiding her father as much as possible. When she spoke to us at all, it was as if she was talking to her landlords instead of her parents. She even left rent money on the kitchen table in an envelope. When she left for college, she took the train instead of letting us drive her to Massachusetts.”

Quilleran didn’t blame Carol at all. In her place, he would have also preferred spending as little time with her father as possible. After clearing his own throat (and resisting the temptation to say “Liar!” under his breath), he said to her, “I’m sorry for the loss of your grandson, and the resulting estrangement from your daughter. Now if you could just let me have a look at those papers you got from the home, so I can clear up the confusion of whether Carol had a boy or a girl—”

“I told you she had a boy!” Mrs. Marcus glared at him again. “Really, Mr. Quilleran, is it necessary for you to harass me this way?”

“No, Mrs. Marcus, I am not harassing you. I simply want to make sure that you received the right set of papers when your daughter’s child died. She thinks that the home may have mixed up her son’s certificates with those of a stillborn baby girl who was born the same day. If that’s so, then there’s a strong possibility that your grandson may still be alive.” He watched her closely as he said this. This time her face went white as snow under her makeup, and her blue eyes became as glassy as marbles as she stared at him in shock.  _*Aha!*_ he thought.  _*So there is a possibility Carol’s son is alive!  She_ _looks scared, not surprised.*_

“Really, Mr. Quilleran,” she repeated, looking as if she had had a bad shock and was trying to cover it up, “I don’t know where you get these ideas. I told you my daughter’s poor baby died the day he was born.”

“Then you shouldn’t mind showing me the birth and death certificates to prove it,” he told her, folding his arms over his chest as he regarded her smugly. He was wearing his usual red and black ensemble, along with his red parka, which he’d thrown over the back of the chair he was sitting in.

“Fine, I’ll get the papers and show you how wrong you are!” she snapped. She got up and headed for the living room door, through which he could see a carpeted staircase heading upstairs. The carpet was the same discreet beige color as the living room rug his easy chair sat upon, as well as the sofa she had been perched on. On her way out, she looked over her shoulder and said curtly, “Please do me the favor of remaining where you are, Mr. Quilleran. I will not tolerate you snooping around the house while I am gone.”

“Madam, I assure you I do not snoop through people’s houses,” he told her with great dignity. “Even when they forget to offer me as much as a cup of coffee in hospitality.”

Stung by this reminder of her less than gracious reception upon his arrival, she said grudgingly “I suppose I can offer you some tea before you go. But that’s as much as I can give you. I need to go shopping, since there’s no cake or other snacks in the house.”

_*And even if there were, you wouldn’t offer me any,*_ he guessed. _*Because you want to be rid of me as quickly as possible.*_ He just smiled and said, “Tea is fine. With lemon and three sugars, please.”

“Of course,” she said stiffly as she exited the room. As soon as he saw her going up the staircase, he got out of his chair and began prowling the room like a curious cat. After all, he had only said he didn’t snoop through houses. He never said anything about the room he was sitting in. He found a wedding photo of the late admiral in his dress uniform and his wife in an elaborate lace wedding gown, looking remarkably like her daughter when she was young. In Carol’s prom photo, she stood beside young Jim Kirk, who wore a dark blue tuxedo, as he fastened an orchid corsage on her left wrist, as white as her prom dress. She stood alone in her high school graduation photo, clutching her diploma as if it were a baton as she gave a forced smile to the camera. There were small, pale rectangular shapes on the wallpaper, as if a bunch of smaller photos had once hung there. He guessed they were of Carol as she was growing up. Had her mother taken them down after learning Carol had lost her innocence at the high school prom? Or after she became estranged from her daughter, when she fled to college to escape from the parents who betrayed her?

The last thing he saw was a photo of the admiral in his final days, grey and gaunt with cancer, along with a framed clipping of his obituary from the New York Times, which gave a long description of his heroic service to his country during the Vietnam war from behind the lines, training young men who had the “right stuff”. When he heard footsteps coming down the staircase, he put the photo back next to the obit and took his seat again. Pulling out his cellphone, he made a big deal out of checking his messages to give the impression that he had been doing so all this time, as Mrs. Marcus came back into the living room. She was holding a folder in her right hand.

“Here you are,” she said, offering the folder to him. “All the papers from the home are in there. I’ll fix you a cup of tea while you’re looking at them.”

“Thank you very much, Mrs. Marcus,” he said graciously as he took the folder in his left hand, while holding his phone in his right hand. “I just need to return this call, if you don’t mind.”

“Not at all.” She left the room again, giving him a chance to respond to his assistant’s text, which read: _F_ _ound Father Jason at mission. What now?_ He texted her back with instructions on how to proceed. When he finished, he pressed “Send” and heaved a sigh of relief. That was one less thing to worry about. He trusted Roberta to do a little covert mission without his help, the way she used to do them for Gary. He only hoped she didn’t have to fake a Spanish accent. She spoke the language well enough, but her accent was terrible.

He opened the folder and looked at the papers, studying them closely. The first was a letter to the Marcuses, on white stationary with a gold letterhead showing an image of Saint Ann holding out comforting arms to a pregnant girl, presumably her daughter Mary. Dated December 10th, 1966, the letter formally admitted their daughter Carol to Saint Ann’s Maternity Home, where they were assured that she would be cared for and educated appropriately for her age and grade range until her child was born, after which arrangements would be made for the legal adoption of the child. It was signed by Mother Superior Alice Kelly, the head of the home. The second was another letter with the same letterhead, dated March 13th, 1967, in which the Marcuses were regretfully informed that their daughter had given birth to a baby boy who had died within an hour after his birth, due to underdeveloped lungs. Mother Alice told them that their grandson had been baptized with the name of David before he was interred in the home’s small cemetery, along with the other infants who had been stillborn or died shortly after birth since the home was founded back in 1952.

There were two certificates with the seal of New York State, one a birth certificate, the other a death certificate. Both were for a male infant named David Marcus, born and died on March 13th, 1967. But there was no baptismal certificate. Only a transcript of Carol’s grades from Saint Ann’s school, which showed that she majored in science and mathematics. The last document was an official letter of discharge from the home, wishing Miss Marcus the best of luck in the future, along with a quote from the Bible about a virtuous woman being worth more than rubies.

Quilleran was still studying this last document when Mrs. Marcus came back into the room, holding a mug of hot tea. He took it from her with thanks, carefully laying the folder full of documents aside. He took his time sipping his tea while he thought of his next question. “If Carol’s baby had lived, would you have let her bring him home?”

She shook her head. “No, Alexander made it clear that he didn’t want Jim Kirk’s bastard under his roof. He even told Carol he would disown her and not give her a penny for college if she kept the baby. But she was determined to do so.” She sighed. “I guess it was a mixed blessing that the baby died. On the one hand, nobody ever found out about her disgrace, after we supposedly sent her away to her grandmother’s house in Buffalo, with orders to forget Jim. On the other hand, it drove us apart, made her treat us as if we were responsible for her losing the baby.”

“Weren’t you? After all, you did send her to an unwed mother’s home in a remote rural area with poor medical facilities.”

“I’d hardly call Rhineland, New York a remote rural area,” she said indignantly. “As for the medical care she got, the home’s doctor was no Albert Schwitzer, but he was experienced and competent.”

“When he was sober, you mean?” Quilleran quirked an eyebrow at her over his tea mug, a sardonic smile on his face. “According to Carol, the home’s doctor did drink a little.”

“I was not aware that Doctor Phillip Felix had a drinking problem,” Mrs. Marcus said with the dignity of a drunk in denial herself. “I only met him twice, on the day we admitted Carol and the day we took her home. He impressed me both times as a serious man who had all the girls’ welfare in mind.”

“That wasn’t all that was on his mind,” Quilleran remarked before taking a sip of tea. “Carol thinks that the mother superior may have had something on him, to force him to work there after he left the hospital he used to work at.”

“Carol listened to too much gossip,” her mother informed him sternly. “I’m sure there was very little else for her and the other girls to do between classes and masses, as they put it.”

“Weren’t there facilities for the girls to exercise? Even back in the 60’s, doctors recommended mild exercise for pregnant women, so they would be in shape to survive labor.”

“Yes, they had a tennis court and an indoor swimming pool and a gym teacher who taught calisthenics to pregnant women. Carol was always very athletic. She played soccer and tennis in school. I assume they encouraged her to play at Saint Ann’s as well. But girls will be girls, and I’ve yet to see a bunch of teenage girls with time on their hands who didn’t like to gossip.”

Quilleran nodded understandingly as he pictured a group of pregnant teenagers sitting in a lounge, whispering and giggling to each other behind the nuns’ backs, as Carol described it to him. “Did Carol write or phone you from the home? Did she tell you what it was like, when they weren’t attending classes and masses?”

“The girls were allowed to call their parents on Saturday and Sunday nights, provided they used the phone in the Mother Superior’s office, and one of the nuns was present to monitor the call. They were also encouraged to write to their families at least once a week. I understand some of them wrote daily, begging their parents to let them come home. Some even wrote to their boyfriends begging to be rescued from the home. They had to smuggle those letters out and mail them on their weekly walks to town. My daughter told me that the whole time she was there, from mid-September to the middle of March, not a single boy came to see his pregnant girlfriend, or try to rescue her from the home.”

“I see,” he murmured. “I guess that’s why the nuns discouraged them from writing to their babies’ fathers in the first place.” He pitied those girls who wrote in vain to the boys they loved, who thought their boyfriends loved them enough to save them from what seemed like imprisonment. He thought of Carol, who wouldn’t waste her time writing to Jim because she thought he was dead, and wondered if she envied the other girls for having someone to write to, other than the parents who dumped them there. He wondered if the envy became relief as the long months dragged by with no reply from the other girls’ boyfriends, or gratitude that her lover had died before he became tired of her. That wouldn’t have been much comfort when she lost her baby, of course. But had she really lost the baby? He was determined to find out, and to learn if Father McKenzie had anything to do with it.

“Well, thank you for your time, Mrs. Marcus,” he told her after draining his tea mug. “I appreciate your letting me look at these letters and documents. It clears up some of the confusion about what happened to Carol all those years ago. But it still doesn’t explain why your husband said ‘granddaughter’ when he meant ‘grandson’.”

“He was just surprised to see Jim again, and was thinking of his own daughter,” Didi told him; her gaze seemed to be fixed on something behind him. Quilleran guessed it was the picture of Carol and Jim on prom night. His reporters’ instinct and experience told him that she was lying; liars found it easier to lie if they weren’t looking directly at you. But why was she lying? To protect her late husband’s reputation? Or her daughter’s?

He opened the folder to have one last look at the papers and the first thing he saw was the letterhead of Saint Ann’s Maternity Home, which included the address. “I guess I’ll have to go to Saint Ann’s if I want more answers,” he said, reaching for his notebook to copy the address.

“Mother Alice will confirm everything I told you,” Didi Marcus assured him.

“I’m sure she will, but I’d rather hear it from the source.” Quilleran finished copying the address and gave her back the folder. “Thanks again for the tea and your time, Mrs. Marcus. If you would rather not be mentioned in my article, I can describe you as an anonymous source.”

“Yes, I would prefer if you did,” she murmured, gathering up his empty mug. She added fretfully, “I don’t know why you have to write about this at all. Even though it was a long time ago, I would rather not have my daughter’s disgrace made public.”

“I doubt whether any of your neighbors and friends read The Boston Globe. So don’t worry.” He rose, collected his red parka and put it on, then stuffed his notebook into the inner pocket and zipped himself up. A glance at his wristwatch told him he had just enough time to drive back to New York City before it got dark. “Goodbye, Mrs. Marcus, and many thanks.” He added generously, “I do hope that you and your daughter can make peace with each other someday soon.”

“I pray for it daily,” she sighed. He followed her out of the living room and down the hallway, where she escorted him to the front door. She watched him go with seeming indifference, but when he looked back at her before crossing the street, he thought he saw a tear shining on her cheek, just below her left eye. He waved to her and turned away, thinking maybe it was just the cold making her eyes water. But as he approached his battered black Impala, which stood out like an old shoe on a shoe rack filled with designer loafers in this neighborhood, he couldn’t help thinking of how all good mothers weep for their children, no matter how ungrateful the children were or how much trouble they caused. Or whether they were living or dead.

He unlocked his car and got behind the wheel, sighing as he started the car, thinking of his own long dead mother, lying at peace next to his father in the same cemetery as his first husband. Both his parents had been unabashed liberals, free thinkers, scholars and skeptics, he a reporter and she a columnist on The Boston Globe; they had survived the House Committee on Un-American Activities by threatening to name names on the committee itself, braved the wrath of the Catholics by supporting birth control and abortion before they became popular, and caused a minor scandal in their neighborhood by refusing to disown their only son when he came out as gay. The only time his mother had cried had been when he told her he was joining the Army, so he could travel around the world and get a government-funded college education, to spare her and Dad from having to pay tuition. She was so afraid that her boy would turn into a mindless, obedient little soldier with no will of his own, who would never question authority. Good thing he was able to reassure her before her death that he was still the same troublemaker she had raised him to be. Who knew she would die so soon after her husband?

_*If only Dad had taken better care of himself and stopped smoking sooner! If only Mom hadn’t taken his death so hard and neglected her own health afterwards. If only I had visited her more often, maybe she would have lived longer...*_   Quilleran blinked his eyes hard to stop the tears from flowing. _*Grow up, Q! You’ve got a job to do. No use in dwelling on the past. As your own mother used to tell you, the good old days weren’t all that good, and tomorrow ain’t as bad as it seems.*_

He stepped on the gas and pulled out of there, driving slowly so as not to attract attention. But he already had, from an elderly man wearing a clerical collar and a black trench coat, who photographed him on his cell phone leaving the street where Didi Marcus lived. He forwarded the picture to a certain priest in Boston, whom he used to serve with back in the days when Cardinal Spellman ran the New York Archdiocese like his own little kingdom.


	7. Chapter 7

 

“THE BAD SHEPHERD”

PART 7 OF 15

_“Hush little baby don't say a word_

_And never mind that noise you heard_

_It's just the beasts under your bed_

_In your closet, in your head...”_

“Enter Sandman _”_ by Metallica, 1991

 

BOSTON, MASSACHUSETTS

WEDNESDAY, MARCH 28TH, 10:09 P.M., 2012

 Quilleran stumbled across his own threshold that night looking like he’d been to Hell and back rather than New York. He would have preferred to come home first, but his editor had threatened to send him to an Easter pageant on Friday night at Saint John’s Grammar School, where his ten-year-old nephew had a starring role as one of the disciples in the Garden of Gethsemane. “If you don’t come straight to this office to tell me what you found in New York, you’re going to have to write the review for Keegan’s play!” Quinn had told him determinedly, via cell phone, before he left New York. So rather than spend an evening watching rugrats in robes reciting Biblical verses, he’d driven straight from New York to Boston, right to The Boston Globe building, where he spent the rest of the day being wracked by Quinn for information on the Bad Shepherd, as they now both referred to Father McKenzie.

After a lot of plotting and planning, plus a long phone call to the paper’s legal department, Quinn had decided to make this a human interest story. He kept mentioning the words “Pulitzer Prize” often enough to mollify the exhausted and exasperated reporter, who managed to grab a quick nap on one of the cots in the reporter’s lounge, kept there for people working overnight, while Quinn was on the phone with the lawyers. He had even sent out for pizza to mollify Quilleran, who hadn’t eaten a thing since his scanty Continental breakfast, which consisted of a plastic-wrapped croissant with a pat of butter and a tiny pack of grape jelly, an apple and coffee, before checking out of his hotel room.

Finally, after adding his additional info to the story in progress on his computer, as Quinn breathed down his neck, he was allowed to leave at 9:30 p.m., with dire threats of being assigned to more cute Easter stuff (like the children’s Easter parade at a local park, where all the participants wore homemade Easter bonnets) if he dared to leave town before submitting his expense report and applying for a new one to go to Saint Ann’s Maternity Home.

On his way out, Quilleran had spotted a file folder on his assistant’s desk, with his name written on a pink sticky note attached to it. He’d grabbed it in passing and taken it with him. A quick perusal in his car told him that it was her report on what had happened at the mission where she had located Father Jason, after she had visited there disguised as his sister. The opening paragraph described her transformation into a Mexican (black wig, brown contact lenses, and dark makeup) before entering Casa de San Martin, a homeless shelter for men over fifty, located in East Boston, near Roxbury. He stuffed the folder into his little backback, along with the additional material that Anthony Caruso, the religion editor, had given him on the Catholic Church’s policy toward former priests and nuns. He’d found it on his chest when he woke up from his nap, along with a note from Caruso asking to be included in the article he was writing, warning him to beware of divine retribution if he didn’t get a piece of the action.

He drove home slowly with his eyelids at half-mast, hoping he wouldn’t fall asleep at the wheel. By the time he found a parking space a half block from his co-op building, he was ready to crawl into the back seat and spend the night there. But he hadn’t seen his husband for two days and he missed him, so he forced himself out of the car, grabbed his duffle bag and slammed the door shut with his right foot. He remembered to lock it with the remote control on his keychain as he was lumbering away, looking like a zombie schlepping a corpse as he carried his duffle bag on his left shoulder.

By the time he got up to his apartment, the duffle bag felt like it was full of rocks instead of clothes and toiletries. He dropped it on the floor by the coat tree before hanging up his parka, and then shuffled to the living room, which he found tidy but empty. A delectable smell lingered in the air, which told him that Jean-Luc had cooked dinner before going to bed. He checked the fridge and found a covered pan, two-thirds full of lasagna. He also found half a loaf of Italian bread and cut himself two thick slices, spreading them with butter and devouring one while heating up a generous portion of the lasagna in the microwave. He ate the rest of the bread with the pasta, accompanied by a glass of red wine, grateful that his husband had left enough for him to fill his empty belly after this long day. His hunger satisfied, he cleaned up and headed for the bedroom in back. 

He opened the door and turned on the light, using the dimmer switch to gradually raise the light level until he saw his sleeping husband lying in bed with his arm around Isis, who was stretched out on Quilleran’s side of the bed nearest the door, looking as long as a furry black serpent. Her head was nestled on Jean-Luc’s shoulder and the tip of her tail was gently waving back and forth against the sheets. “The nerve of her, taking my place while I’m away!” he muttered. “As if she didn’t have a perfectly good cat bed right by the door.” He went over to the bed and carefully lifted the sleeping cat in his arms. He carried her over to the cat bed in question, where he deposited her gently on the purple cushion inside the fleecy, leopard-print oval. Isis woke briefly and emitted a soft mew of protest before curling up into a ball and resuming her snooze.

Quilleran undressed quickly before using the dimmer switch to turn the room light low and crawling into bed with Jean-Luc. Taking him into his arms, he kissed him gently, causing him to wake and murmur sleepily, “Q?”

“No, it’s the Boston Strangler,” he told him playfully. “I’m going to smother you with kisses.”

“Not a bad way to go,” Picard remarked, regarding him fondly from sleepy hazel eyes. “I wasn’t expecting you until tomorrow.”

“Is that any reason to let Isis commandeer my place beside you?”

“She was just keeping your side of the bed warm, _mon cher._ ”

“I would have been here in time for lunch, but Quinn forced me to come straight to the office.” He explained about the threat to assign him to some cute Easter story, which gave his husband a chuckle.

“Well, I’ve spent the entire day surrounded by cuteness. Starting with the children in daycare, who needed help dying their Easter eggs, then the ladies in our cooking class, showing them how to make Easter bunnies, lambs, and crosses out of bread dough. After lunch, I taught everybody in my English as a Second Language class how to say ‘Have a Happy and Blessed Easter” in English, and write it on handmade greeting cards. Most of them drew beautiful pictures of flowers, colored eggs, bunnies and crosses on their cards. But the cutest part of my day was when a representative from the local animal shelter came by, to teach everybody in the afterschool program how to take care of rabbits. She brought along a couple of last year’s Easter bunnies whose former owners had turned them in after they grew too big to be cute. The children certainly didn’t think so; they vied with each other to hold them and pet them, while the lady from the shelter told them how to feed and house them properly. Did you know that rabbits can be taught to use a litter box, just like cats?”

“You don’t say? Maybe we should get one to keep Isis company.” He looked over his shoulder at Isis, who opened one eye to glare at him as she lay curled up in her little bed.

_*My litter box is off limits!*_ Isis informed him in no uncertain terms, her voice growly as a bear’s. _*And if I wanted company, I’d prefer another cat, not an overgrown rodent!*_       

“I think she would prefer another cat for company,” Picard murmured, correctly interpreting her annoyed tone. “But let’s wait until she gets a little older. She might feel more maternal towards a young cat or kitten if she’s old enough to regret the kittens she never had.”

“Gary told me she never had kittens, so I guess she was fixed before we met. Not every female should be a mother. Some are just too focused on themselves to care for little ones the right way. Some never get the chance, like Isis. Or Carol Marcus,” he added, sadly.

“Oh, did you find out anything useful about that?” Picard was suddenly wide awake, regarding his husband with serious eyes. “Did Doctor Marcus have a live baby? And was it a boy or a girl?”                

“It was a boy, and it was born alive. When I visited Carol’s mother, she showed me a birth certificate and a death certificate, as well as a letter from the mother superior of Saint Ann’s telling her that the baby had died shortly after it was born, from underdeveloped lungs. But Carol told me that after she and Jim became engaged at the senior prom in June, they went all the way-”

“That’s not unusual. Many young people experience sex for the first time at their senior prom,” Picard told him helpfully. “I’ve heard plenty of confessions from girls and boys racked with guilt the morning after, or the week after. Sometimes a month after, when the girl missed her period. Then I had to calm them down and urge them to see a doctor before they did something foolish, like elope.”

Quilleran chuckled. “Yes, my love, I know about the tradition of going all the way at the prom. But you didn’t let me finish. I was about to tell you that after Carol and Jim went all the way at the prom in June, she didn’t find out she was pregnant until the end of August. And the baby was born in March, which would have made him full-term. But why would a full-term baby have underdeveloped lungs?”

“It has been known to happen,” Picard said cautiously, a look of doubt on his kindly face. “An otherwise healthy baby could have organs that are not fully developed at birth.”

“Not this baby. Carol assured me that when she gave birth, the last thing she heard was a baby crying loudly. She barely heard the doctor saying ‘It’s a boy!’ before she passed out. I suspect the doctor may have given her a little something to make sure she lost consciousness before she could hold her son. To keep her from getting attached,” Quilleran explained cynically.

“Well, if the child was to be adopted, it wouldn’t do for the mother to become attached,” Picard said practically, though he did feel sorry for the mother.

“Yes, but the baby died. Or so they said. I’m beginning to suspect that Carol’s baby didn’t die at birth like they told her. For one thing, there was no baptismal certificate in the folder along with the birth and death certificates that Carol’s mother showed me. More importantly, there was no burial certificate. That’s supposed to be required when a body is buried, whether in a church cemetery or a secular one.”

“Didn’t you tell me that Saint Ann’s Home has its own cemetery? Not all private cemeteries issue burial certificates. As for the baptism certificate, if the poor child was baptized after he died, there would be no need for one, since it was strictly a formality.”

Quilleran rolled over and stared at the ceiling with a thoughtful frown. “I don’t know, Jean-Luc. I don’t know for sure that Carol’s baby really died the same day he was born. What if he was switched in his crib, replaced by the dead baby girl who was born earlier that day? It would explain why Admiral Marcus said ‘granddaughter’ instead of ‘grandson’ to Jim, when he blamed him for Carol and the baby’s deaths.”

“You believe that the child survived and was adopted? But by whom?”

“That’s what I’m going to find out,” Quilleran told him determinedly. “Which is why I’m going back to New York as soon as possible. I’m going to interview Mother Alice at Saint Ann’s to see what she remembers about that day. I’ll tell her that I’m there to do an article about unwed motherhood then and now, to see if homes for unwed mothers are still relevant in this day and age, when even celebrities are not ashamed to have babies out of wedlock.”

“Yes, that sets a shocking example for young girls who idolize those celebrities,” Picard remarked, leaning on his elbow to look down at his husband. “Just be careful how you ask your questions, love. Mother Alice will be more concerned with protecting the identities of the unwed mothers who gave birth at the home, than with the fate of one child.”

“Hmph! If this one child was the result of a misalliance between a prominent Navy admiral’s daughter and a poor working boy, then I’m pretty sure someone made it worth Mother Alice’s while to make sure that the admiral’s daughter didn’t take her bastard home with her.”

“Really, Q, your cynicism regarding the church—” 

“Is justified and you know it!” he retorted. “Look how they treated you when you tried to tell them about Romano!”

Picard sighed and lay down beside him again. “All right, go to Saint Ann’s Home if you must. But be careful not to tread on Mother Alice’s toes. Most mother superiors behave as if they’re running their own little kingdom. Especially if they’re giving sanctuary to the daughters of wealthy and prominent people who would be disgraced by their conduct. Remember that Romano had an uncle who was wealthy and prominent, as well as ruthless.”

“Yes, but they’re both in jail now,” Quilleran reminded him. “And if Mother Alice is hiding anything about the legality of the adoptions at her little kingdom, then I won’t hesitate to see that she’s arrested too.”

“She may have powerful friends as well,” Picard reminded him softly. “In the church, as well as in society. And if she knew Cardinal Spellman at the time—”

“She did,” Quilleran informed him, “as well as his henchman, Father McKenzie. Carol told me he was one of the priests who came regularly to say mass at Saint Ann’s. He was also the one who broke the news to her about her baby’s death.”

“Did he? How convenient for him to be on the spot when the child was born. Was it on a Sunday, after morning mass?” 

“No, it was on a Monday. Which means he either spent the night at the home, or Mother Alice called him the moment she learned Carol had gone into labor. But why was it necessary for him to be there when Carol gave birth?”

“Perhaps he was under orders from the cardinal to make sure the daughter of his friend, Admiral Marcus, received special attention.”

“Or her child did. Meaning make sure that the brat was relocated with new parents as soon as possible. They might even have had a pair of adoptive parents waiting in the wings. Probably good friends of the cardinal’s, who had been on the adoption waiting list for years. I’m sure they would have been happy to take the baby, with no questions asked. And maybe some money exchanged hands, too.”

Picard looked shocked. “Are you suggesting that Carol Marcus’ baby might have been sold to his new parents?”

“No, not at all,” Quilleran said sweetly. “I’m suggesting that maybe the new parents were so grateful to Mother Alice for providing them with a baby that they may have made a generous donation to Saint Ann’s Home. That’s possible, isn’t it?” he asked, giving his husband a look that dared him to deny it.

Picard gave a melancholy sigh. “Yes, it is possible that if Carol’s baby was secretly adopted, his new parents might have made a generous donation to the home as a thank offering. But how do you intend to prove this?”

“The way I always do, by digging deep until I find the truth.”

“Be careful, love,” he warned him, arms going around him in a protective hug. “When you go digging into the past, there’s always the danger that you might dig up something that refuses to stay buried.”

Quilleran looked uneasy, then laughed. “You just reminded me of the ending of _Carrie_ , that movie based on Stephen King’s book. Did you ever see it?”

“Yes, I especially remember the end, where the surviving girl dreams of visiting Carrie’s grave, and her hand shoots up out of the ground and grabs her. Take care nothing like that happens to you, _mon cher_.”

Quilleran laughed again as he hugged him. “It’s not my past I’m going to be digging up, my love.”

“That makes it even more dangerous,” he told him softly. “People seldom appreciate having their pasts dug up. And once you dig something up, it may prove impossible to bury it again.”

“Go to sleep, love,” Quilleran told him with a kiss. “Let me worry about digging up the past. You can say the Last Rites over it if it refuses to stay buried.”

But even after his husband had fallen asleep, Quilleran remained awake, staring into the dark, wondering if he was about to dig something up that should remain at rest. And when he finally did fall asleep, he woke up a short time later in a cold sweat from a creepy dream, where a baby’s skeleton burst out of its’ little grave and held out its’ bony arms to him to be picked up, saying “I’m not dead!” in a pitiful little voice.


	8. Chapter 8

“THE BAD SHEPHERD” 

Part 8 of 15

_“And the lonely voice of youth cries_

_‘What is truth?’"_

“What Is Truth?” by Johnny Cash, 1970

 

BOSTON, MASSACHUSETTS

THURSDAY, MARCH 29TH, 9:05 A.M., 2012

From the smell of fresh coffee that greeted him upon his arrival at the Globe building, Quilleran knew that his assistant had gotten there ahead of him. Sure enough, there was Roberta in his office, wearing one of her colorful sweater sets and a corduroy skirt, worn over fleece tights and knee-high boots. She had a mug of coffee in one hand and a manila envelope full of papers in the other, which she held out to him as he walked through the door. He switched his travel mug, still half full of coffee, to his left hand so he could take the envelope. “These, I take it, are your expenses?”

“Yes, and you’d better make sure I’m reimbursed, boss. I could be excommunicated for what I did the last two days,” she informed him before taking a sip of coffee from her own mug.

“Come on, all you did was visit a homeless shelter, talk to a priest, and help him get in touch with an old friend,” Quilleran told her as he put the items on his desk before peeling off his parka.

“I disguised myself like a Mexican to visit this priest, only to find his English was as good as mine. But he still appreciated my attempt to blend in, since there were so many other Latinos at that shelter.” She sighed and brushed doughnut crumbs off the front of her turquoise and pink sweater set, worn over a rose-colored cord skirt. “Have you read my report yet?”

“Yes, and I appreciate everything you’ve gone through to help Kevin and Jason. I assume they’re together again?”

“Yes, at the nearest cheap hotel by that place you told me about. I just hope that Jason can keep his vow of celibacy intact until he’s officially left the priesthood. Though from the way they were hugging and kissing when I left, I doubt it.” She shrugged and took another sip of coffee. “Oh, well, it’s none of my business.”

“If they find out that you helped him to escape from the shelter, and rendezvous with his boyfriend near a safe house for runaway gay teens, they’ll make it your business,” Quilleran informed her.

“Well, at least they can’t accuse either of them of corrupting the kids at this place. By the standards of the church, they’ve already been corrupted.” She snorted in disgust. “I wish you could have heard some of the kids’ stories. Most of them were forced to leave home because their oh-so-religious parents couldn’t bear to have a queer kid under their roof. What happened to ‘Judge not, lest ye be judged’? Wasn’t Jesus all about forgiveness? Even the Prodigal Son, who spent all his money on wine, women, and gambling, was welcomed home by his father when he finally hit bottom and had nowhere else to go.”

“The Prodigal Son was a parable about forgiveness, not an actual person. Jesus was trying to explain to people how his father’s infinite love made him capable of forgiving any sin. As long as the sinner is truly repentant.”

“So if God can forgive any sin, why do people insist upon punishing sinners who seek forgiveness?”

Quilleran shrugged. “I don’t know. I guess it’s easier to let God or the priest who’s speaking for him forgive your sins, than to forgive someone else who’s offended you.”

“Hey, we’re talking about teenagers who’ve fallen in love for the first time with another boy! Or another girl. I’ll admit that’s a lot more upsetting to the average parent then finding out your kid had a fender bender while driving your car. But throwing your own kid out because he _won’t_ get a girl pregnant? Or she’ll never disgrace the family by becoming pregnant while still in high school? I’m just saying there are worse things kids can do, you know?”

“Yes, I know. Now pull up a chair and let’s go through this report of yours. I want to compare it with the receipts you have in here.”

They spent the next hour or so going through Roberta’s report and the bunch of receipts in the manila envelope. Most of them were on the newspaper’s credit card that had been given to Quilleran, which she was an authorized user of. Every single item she had purchased with the card--from the black wig and dark makeup she’d used in her disguise to the cheap hotel room she’d rented for the runaway priest under his mother’s maiden name--was haggled over until Quilleran was satisfied that they would meet Quinn’s stringent requirements for a “necessary expense”. He complimented her for having the foresight to use a cash advance from the card, instead of the card itself, to rent the hotel room, so that it wouldn’t be traced back to Quilleran or the paper.

“Gary taught me to always pay cash for some items, so it wouldn’t leave a paper trail of credit card receipts,” she told him as she refilled their coffee mugs for the third time. “Even after I paid for a week’s stay, there was still a little money left. So I gave it to Jason and told him to buy himself some clothes. The things I saw him unpacking were pretty old and kinda worn, even though they were clean. He told me he got most of them out of the shelter’s donation bin. Seems he had to sell a lot of his stuff to buy food and other supplies for the shelter.”

“Yes, places like San Martin tend to get the short end of the stick when it comes to funding. After all, they’re not in a white neighborhood,” her boss remarked.

Roberta looked shocked, then indignant. “But they’re a church-run shelter! It shouldn’t make any difference!”

Quilleran laughed. “How old are you, Roberta? Do you still believe in the goodness and mercy of the Catholic Church and the old white men who run it? Do you also believe in Santa Claus and the Easter Bunny?”

“What about Santa Claus?” she said with mock belligerency. “Okay, I admit the Catholic Church is a flawed institution, run by flawed men, who still believe that women are the weaker vessels and non-white people don’t have the brains to handle money or authority. That doesn’t affect my belief in God. It just makes me very disappointed with the people who claim to be acting in His name.”

“You’re not the only one. Let’s finish up here so I can tell Quinn about Saint Ann’s Maternity Home and why I should go there as soon as possible.”

********

By 4:30 p.m., Quilleran found himself packing to go on the road again. His anxious husband lectured him on the proper way to address nuns, especially mother superiors, while they packed his duffle bag, a process which took longer than usual because Isis kept jumping into the bag on the bed while he and Jean-Luc selected the contents. Quilleran loudly deplored the conservative clothing and somber colors that Jean-Luc insisted that he wear. “It’s bad enough I have to visit these penguins, without having to look like a priest!” the reporter complained.

“You’re never going to get anywhere with Mother Alice if you go in there looking like one of the men who got those girls pregnant,” Picard retorted, removing the blue jeans and replacing them with the black ones. He then inserted a neatly folded black and white sweater and removed a bright red one. He also removed Isis, patiently laying her at the foot of the bed with the rejected clothing. She promptly lay on top of the rejected jeans, waiting for her chance to get back into the bag.

“Oh, please! I’m the last person she should be worrying about getting any girl pregnant. I suppose I shouldn’t mention that little fact either?”

“No, I wouldn’t mention it. Nor the fact that you’re married to a former priest. Remember, she and her nuns are responsible for protecting these girls from morally questionable people like us.” He took four pairs of clean balled socks out of his husband’s side of the bureau and tucked them into the duffle, alongside the four pairs of clean briefs he had already put there.

Sighing, Quilleran got out a black corduroy blazer from the closet and added it to the bag. “How did I ever get along without you in my life, to instruct me on the proper way to behave with nuns?”

“Considering the way you behaved the first time you came to Saint Joseph’s Haven, I think a reminder about the proper way to treat clergy isn’t out of place.” He put a freshly pressed white shirt and a necktie in the bag, rolled up into a ball to keep it from wrinkling.

“Okay, okay, I admit I was a jerk when I first met you and your brethren. But I’ve always treated women with respect, regardless of whether they were nuns or not.” He put the blazer in the bag and hefted it to see how much room was left. A muffled mew from inside made him reach in and remove Isis again. “For the last time, you are not going!” he informed her. He gave her a kiss on the head and flung her toward her little bed by the door. She landed on her feet right beside it and yowled at him indignantly before sitting down to wash herself, pretending she didn’t care.

“Oh, I can see what a charmer you are with females,” Picard teased him. “Just remember to be as respectful as you can to Mother Alice. Do not refer to her chosen vocation as ‘quaint’ or ‘old-fashioned’. And do not tell her that sheltering pregnant teenagers is an outmoded way of life. Remember that there are still people in this world who believe it is shameful for an unmarried girl to become pregnant.”

“So they have to go to a place like Saint Ann’s to learn to practice shame. Well, as long as there’s still shame in the world, she and her sisters will never be out of a job.”

Picard shook his head as he fetched a clean pair of pajamas from Quilleran’s side of the bureau. “And as long as there are people anxious to hide their shameful conduct, you’ll never be out of a job.”

“Hey, somebody’s got to keep people on the straight and narrow, especially the ones who keep holding themselves up as examples for the rest of us. You should be proud of me, I’m upholding the principals that I’ve followed since I became a journalist, to comfort the afflicted and afflict the comfortable.”

“I am proud of you,” he told him softly, looking at him with anxious eyes from across the room. “Your honesty and integrity makes the world a better place. But it also puts you at risk, from people who don’t appreciate honesty or integrity.”

“It goes with the job,” Quilleran told him as he checked his toiletry bag. “Hey, do we have any more toothpaste? If not, I’ll buy a little tube at the next gas station. I think my toothbrush is still good for a while longer.”

“I still have a travel-size toothpaste tube. You’re welcome to it.” Picard walked across the room to his side, put the pajamas in the duffle and reached out to hug him. Surprised, Quilleran accepted the hug, then looked down at his husband’s worried face. “What’s wrong?” he asked him softly.

“Be careful, Q,” he told him earnestly. “Do not underestimate the power of the Catholic Church, or it’s daughters. I’ve met some formidable nuns during my time as a priest, none as formidable as those in charge of an order. Speak softly and sweetly to Mother Alice and do not tread on her habit. And if you should find a confidential informant among the nuns, or the girls, be careful that Mother Alice doesn’t find out.”

“I always protect my sources. And I always watch my back, regardless of who my subject is. Don’t worry, I can handle myself, and anything Mother Alice or the Church throws at me.”

“Just be careful, my love.” He hugged him again with especial tenderness, making Quilleran wish he didn’t have to go.

As they were holding each other, the bag on the bed began to shake. Startled, both looked up to see a little black head poke itself out of the bag. “Isis!” they chorused. She mewed innocently in reply.

The next thing she knew, she was on the other side of the bedroom door, which was firmly closed in her face. She scratched at it while mewing at the two within _,*You can’t get rid me of that easily! I demand the right to oversee your packing! How else am I going to mark your clothes with my hair, to make sure other cats keep their distance?*_

They finished packing without further interruption, ignoring the pitiful mews from the other side of the door. Just as Quilleran was about to zip the bag shut, Picard insisted on inserting one more thing. It was a throw blanket, folded small, made of brown fleece. “That should keep you warm in the car, in case the heat fails. Or in your hotel room, while you’re watching the telly.” He spread it lovingly over the top of bag’s contents, put the toiletry kit in last, then zipped it up.

He started to lift it off the bed, but Quilleran said “Let me,” and took it from him. After depositing it on the floor by the foot of the bed, he sat down on the bed and pulled Picard down beside him. “I know you’re worried about me going into enemy territory,” he told him, looking earnestly into the worried hazel eyes of the man he loved. “But I promise you I’ll be careful. I’m not going to underestimate Mother Alice just because she’s a woman. Believe me, I’ve learned from experience that the female of the species is more deadly than the male.”

“And how did you learn that?” asked Picard, with a quirk of his solemn mouth that might have been a smile.

“Remember that story of Gary’s I was telling you about? The one I took over after he was killed?”

“Yes, how did you deal with the dead man’s wife, once you discovered she had been abused by her husband?”

As he put his left arm around his husband’s shoulders, a glance at his watch told Quilleran he had an hour to spare before he left. “Well, the first thing I did after hearing Gary’s tape was pay the Soong family a visit...”

********

MONDAY, 6:00 p.m., SEPTEMBER 19TH, 2005

The butler silently escorted Quilleran to the living room of the Soong family mansion, located in a very exclusive part of Boston. He paused at the doorway to announce, “Mr. John Quilleran of The Boston Globe, Madam.”

“Thank you, Homn. Please bring the coffee tray.” The short-haired blonde sitting on the couch dismissed the butler courteously while eyeing Quilleran with unmasked suspicion. The towering, taciturn and balding Homn, whose spotless butler’s uniform did little to conceal his cadaverous built, turned and walked away, giving Quilleran the stink eye as he passed. Quilleran guessed the faithful family servant was too loyal to Mrs. Soong to risk approaching him in private, so gave up on the idea of bribing him if she proved less than forthcoming. As he came into the room, Tasha Soong rose from the brown velvet sectional, wearing black slacks and a tailored yellow blouse, whose severity was relieved by a little gold pin on her left breast shaped like an angel, hands folded in prayer beneath a red heart. She motioned him toward an easy chair. “Please have a seat, Mr. Quilleran.”

“Thank you, Mrs. Soong.” He sat down, careful to pull his black slacks up to preserve the crease. He reached into his red sports jacket and pulled out his notebook and pen, smiling artlessly at the woman accused of murdering her husband. He could have gone with complete black, which was his right as a new widower, but he preferred to mix it with red as a silent warning to his husband’s murderer. With any luck, Lawrence Soong would never see it coming. After adjusting his red tie and brushing imaginary lint from his black shirt, he checked the boutonniere he was wearing in his jacket lapel, which was Gary’s flower recorder, with a new cassette inside. Clearing his throat to cover the sound of the recorder being switched on, he began the interview.

“Mrs. Soong, I understand that new evidence has come to light concerning your husband’s death. Your lawyer intends to offer a plea of self-defense, based on this evidence.”

“Yes,” stated Tasha, staring at him with the intensity of a blue-eyed cat eyeing a mouse hole. “As much as I hate to air my family’s dirty linen in public, I’m not about to go to jail after the way my husband treated me. He forced me to shoot him that night in the library, after I confronted him with evidence of the affair he was having.”

“So there was another woman?”

“Yes, one of the executives on Positronics’ board of directors. He’d been carrying on with her for at least a year. I know because that’s when he started working late and making excuses for not attending family affairs, like our daughter’s birthday, her school play, _Romeo and Juliet_ , in which she had the leading role, his own father’s birthday, not to mention my birthday—” Her face flushed with anger at her late husband’s deceit, she paused to catch her breath, breathing hard as she fought to calm herself, her fists clenched in her lap. He noticed she still wore her wedding ring, along with a diamond engagement ring with an oval-shaped stone that glittered coldly on her left hand. But on her right hand was a small golden ring with a heart-shaped red stone that matched the red heart in the angel pin she wore.

“Do you mind telling me this woman’s name?” Quilleran asked her cautiously. “Or are you saving it for the trial?”

“No, I don’t mind. Her name is Rose Laren. She’s the complete opposite of me; dark hair, dark eyes, with a way of deferring to male authority that domineering men like Loren enjoy.” Her blue eyes flashed angrily.

“So you think this Rose Laren was trying to steal your husband?”

“Not just my husband. She and Loren were both trying to seize control of the family business. I found out that they were buying all the stocks they could get their hands on, as well as bribing small stockholders to sell them their shares. All these stocks were being deposited in a dummy account that was in both their names. Loren intended to gain a majority share of Positronics so he could force his father to retire and leave the whole business to him. He also intended to divorce me for this Rose person, who was helping him defraud his father.”

“And how did you discover this plot?”

“My brother-in-law Lawrence found out about it, when he went over the books and found out a lot of our small stockholders had sold their stock to the same corporation, which was also buying huge shares on the stock market. It didn’t take him long to find out that this corporation was owned by his twin brother. Ever since Lawrence came back from Japan, where he had been studying cybernetics, and found me married to Loren, there’s been bad blood between the two of them.”

“I understand that you and Lawrence have a history.”

“Yes, we were romantically involved,” she admitted. “We were engaged, but when he left so abruptly to study abroad, I jumped to the conclusion that he had abandoned me. So I married his brother out of spite. And I’ve been paying for it ever since,” she sighed.

Quilleran had a shrewd suspicion that Loren had planted the idea of abandonment in her head, in his desire to steal his brother’s girlfriend. “The Soong brothers were always very competitive with each other, weren’t they?”

“Yes, they were. It was more of a deliberate policy on Loren’s part than Lawrence’s. He was always the more aggressive one, determined to show the world how successful he was. But all his success couldn’t hide the fact that he was a weak, angry man full of insecurities, who didn’t trust his closest friends or relatives. He believed that Lawrence was always his father’s favorite, and that I still loved Lawrence despite my marriage to him.”

“Was he right?” Quilleran asked, eyeing her shrewdly.

She stared at him with a face that would turn fresh milk to yogurt before admitting, “Yes, he was right about me, at least. I still loved Lawrence when I married his brother.”

“Enough to lie for him, Mrs. Soong?” he asked softly.

“What do you mean?” she demanded, lifting her blonde head defiantly.

“Do you still love Lawrence enough to lie for him? To claim that you shot his brother when you know that he did?”

“Lawrence did not shoot his brother!” she said angrily. “I did it, after he started beating me again when I demanded a divorce!”

“I understand your late husband was a very jealous man, with a violent temper. What possessed you to confront him alone?”

“I had proof of his affair with Rose Laren! Lawrence got me pictures of them having intimate dinners together, going into motels, meeting each other secretly between board meetings, kissing and clinging to each other like glue-” Tasha stopped for breath, gasping as much in anger as breathlessness.

“I see. Where are these pictures, by the way?”

“The police have them. I turned them over as soon as they arrested me. They’re saying that was my motive for killing him, but it was the beatings and the gun that he threatened me with when I shoved the pictures in his face.”

“Not another word, Tasha!” said a high-pitched voice behind Quilleran. When he turned in his seat, he saw a short, stocky, man with a bulbous bald head surrounded by thinning white hair on either side, wearing an expensive dark suit and an indignant expression, standing in the doorway of the living room. He recognized the eminent defense attorney Nathan Zek. “Good evening, Mr. Zek,” Quilleran greeted him with a smile like a hungry shark. “I was just interviewing your client about the death of her husband.”

“I know what you were doing, Mr. Quilleran,” Zek retorted as he shuffled into the living room on his two little feet, glaring at him with beady black eyes, his double-chinned face turning red. “You were trying to undermine my defense by casting doubts on Mrs. Soong’s story.”

“I assure you, Mr. Zek, I was just trying to get the details straight. You see, I heard another account of Mr. Soong’s death that contradicts your client’s story.”

“I don’t care what you heard!” Zek declared, planting himself by the reporter’s chair. “My client was defending herself from a violent attack by her jealous and possessive husband, who was guilty of the very adultery he kept accusing her of. We have a clear-cut case of justifiable homicide, based on self-defense, and I will not have you muddying the waters by implying that Mrs. Soong was at fault in any way.”

“But she admitted to being in love with her husband’s brother—”

“That was years ago!” Zek waved a chubby hand dismissively, as if shooing away a troublesome fly. “We’ve already established that Lawrence Soong wasn’t at home the night his brother was killed. His only connection to this case was the photos he took of his brother and the Laren woman, which he gave to his sister-in-law to help her divorce her abusive husband.”

“I see,” said Quilleran, remembering the recording he heard in which Gary and the victim’s daughter discussed the truth of Loren Soong’s death. “And why would Lawrence go to the trouble of taking such photos, if not for the intimacy he once enjoyed with Mrs. Soong?”

“I’m sure you’re aware of how competitive the Soong brothers were with one another. Lawrence found out about his brother’s attempt to seize control of Positronics, Inc. and struck back at him by giving his wife proof of his infidelity. He wanted to destroy his marriage the same way that Loren was destroying the family business.”

“Uh-huh,” said Quilleran, nodding agreeably, still smiling like a hungry shark, at an indignant puffer fish swollen by its own importance. Only the knowledge that most pufferfish were poisonous kept him from biting the little man’s head off verbally. “What about Mr. and Mrs. Soong’s daughter? Didn’t she hear the altercation between her parents from upstairs?”

“Miss Holly Soong was plugged into her iPod while doing her homework that night. She didn’t hear a thing,” Zek stated positively.

“Oh, really?” Quilleran, tired of playing games, rose from his seat, towering over the smaller man by a foot and a half. Still smiling, he stated, “What if I told you that I had a recording of Holly Soong being interviewed by the late Gary Seven, a reporter for the same paper that I work for? In this recording she confides to Gary the true details of what happened the night her father was killed. Just before Gary himself was killed, by the last person to see him alive.”

“Not my daughter!” Tasha Soong jumped up from the sofa and dashed toward him like a mother cat with her claws out. “My daughter had nothing to do with Gary Seven’s death!”

Quilleran swung around to confront her. “I didn’t say your daughter killed him. I said that he was killed by the last person to see him alive. Your husband’s brother, Lawrence.”

“What?” Tasha’s face turned white beneath her carefully applied makeup, which made the bruises her late husband had inflicted on her stand out on her cheekbones and forehead. “I don’t understand. What was Lawrence doing at The Boston Globe the night Gary Seven was killed?”

“Trying to persuade Gary not to publish a story exposing the truth about who really killed his brother. You see, your daughter Holly was a witness. She was in the library the night your husband and his brother had that fight which led to Loren’s death. Neither of them saw her. Neither did you, when you ran into the library after hearing the shot fired. Holly sneaked out before you saw her, but only after seeing her uncle accidently shoot her father, and hearing you telling him to give you the gun and go to the office to give himself an alibi, while you took the blame.”

“Nonsense! This is all a tissue of lies!” declared Nathan Zek.

“I assure you it isn’t,” Quilleran said, turning back toward him. “I have a tape recording which Gary secretly made while he was interviewing your client’s daughter. After Holly left, her uncle came to see Gary, who had the presence of mind to turn the recorder back on when he saw who his visitor was. He recorded their conversation, as well as his own murder by Lawrence Soong when Gary refused to leave Holly out of it. Lawrence was trying to protect his niece, which is commendable, but he did it by murdering an honest reporter, which is not.”

Tasha groaned as Zek’s face turned a deeper shade of red. He blinked his beady black eyes rapidly as he processed this unpleasant truth. Then his expression became cunning as he smiled at Quilleran like a cornered rat baring its teeth. “So, tell me, Mr. Quilleran, do you have this recording on you?”

“As a matter of fact, I do,” Quilleran told him, neglecting to tell him that he had already sent a copy of the recording to Detective Arbuthnot, along with a message to meet him here at the Soong mansion at 6:15 p.m. A glance at the clock on the ornate mantle told him that Arbuthnot was only five minutes away.

“Now I know that you’re a reasonable man,” Zek said as he sidled up to him, laying a hand on his arm in a familiar fashion. “Surely you can see the justice in a man like Loren Soong being shot by his own gun, whether it was by his wife or his brother. I’m confident of my ability to get Mrs. Soong acquitted, but I’m not so sure I can get Lawrence off, given the history of rivalry between the brothers. If you give me that recording, I’ll make sure you’re well compensated. I assure you that Dr. Soong will pay you a small fortune to keep his only remaining son out of jail.”

“Oh, I’m sure he would,” said Quilleran as he shook off the little man’s hand clutching his coat sleeve. “But while the first killing may have been justified by Loren’s violence, Gary did nothing to deserve his death.”

“He would have exposed an innocent girl to unwanted publicity. Surely you can’t blame Lawrence for wanting to protect his niece.”

“No, I blame him for killing my husband.”

“Your what?” Zek’s mouth opened as wide as a frog catching flies, his beady eyes bulging like a frog’s too, as he stared at Quilleran in shock.

“My husband. Gary Seven was my husband,” Quilleran told him calmly, taking pleasure in the little lawyer’s shock. The hasty way Zek retreated across the lush carpet, nearly sending sparks up from his designer loafers, revealed his homophobia as well. He nearly bumped into Tasha, who stepped to one side to avoid the collision, her beautiful face tight-lipped with loathing at her lawyer’s cowardice. She advanced as Zek retreated, looking Quilleran bravely in the eye as she spoke.

“I’m sorry about your husband, Mr. Quilleran. But it won’t bring him back to put my brother-in-law in jail. If you’ll just give me that recording, I’ll give you whatever you want. I’m a wealthy woman in my own right, as well as a rich widow. Just name your price.”

Quilleran folded his arms and looked at her with the same contempt that her lawyer was regarding him with. “Let me get this straight; if I give you the recording of Lawrence Soong murdering Gary Seven, you’ll give me anything I want?”

“Anything!” Tasha assured him.

“I want my husband back, bitch!” he hissed, making her recoil like a startled cat. “But we both know that’s not possible. So I’ll settle for seeing his murderer behind bars. All the cops have to do is compare the bullets they took out of Gary with the bullet they took out of your husband’s gut the night Lawrence shot him.”

“You fool, the cops already have that gun!” Tasha snapped. “I left it where they would find it when they searched my room that night!”

“Then they’ll just have to find the other gun that Lawrence used to kill Gary.”

“Don’t worry, I’ve got it right here,” said a voice behind him.

Quilleran turned around to see Lawrence Soong in a yellow turtleneck and black slacks, standing only inches away, pointing a gun at him. His heart nearly leaped out of his mouth, which he kept firmly closed, swallowing hard to keep his heart and his fear down. “Hello, Larry,” he managed to say calmly. “How nice of you to put in an appearance.” A glance at the clock told him that Detective Arbuthnot would arrive at any minute. So he stalled for time. “I hope you don’t expect me to fall apart just because you point a gun at me. I was in the Army, you know. I’ve had worse things pointed at me.”

“I’m sure you’ve had plenty of things pointed at you, you miserable faggot,” said Lawrence, staring at him with cold contempt. He was of medium height and pale complexion, with short, black hair brushed back from his high forehead, and black eyes.

“That’s right, go for the easy insult,” said Quilleran, keeping his eyes on the man’s face, not his gun. “Tell me, did you notice our wedding picture on Gary’s desk the night you shot him? Is that the real reason why you did it?”

“No, you asshole! I did it to protect Holly! She’s innocent of this rotten business!”

“Not as innocent as you think. Her innocence died the moment she saw you shoot her father in the library.”

“It was an accident! My idiot brother was trying to shoot me! It wasn’t enough for him to break my heart by stealing the woman I love, and taking my place at our father’s side. Not to mention all the money he embezzled from our father over the years, and spent on that Laren whore!” Lawrence looked like he wanted to spit to clean his mouth when he mentioned her name.

“Yes, what about Rose Laren? Was he really going to divorce Tasha to marry her, after gaining control of Positronics?”

“Of course not! He lied to her the same way he’s lied to everyone else over the years! He was using Rose to help him buy up all the available stock, and get the small shareholders to sell their stocks. My brother would never have divorced Tasha; she was his prize, his proof that he had beaten me. He knew if he divorced her, she’d come back to me. And I would fight him tooth and nail for custody of Holly.”

“Why? Because you love your niece that much? Or because you just didn’t want her father to have her?”

“I was more of a father to her than Loren! I never beat her, or kicked her pets, or insulted her friends because of their race or religion! I smuggled food to her when he sent her to bed hungry. I gave her the toys she wanted for Christmas after he told her there was no Santa Claus, because he was too cheap to buy them. And I was never too busy to come to her dance recitals or her school plays.”

“Yes, you certainly were a very fond uncle,” Quilleran admitted as another fleet glance at the mantle’s clock showed him that the cavalry was running late. “I have to agree with you that your late brother was no father of the year. But if you really wanted to protect the girl, why didn’t you send her away to an exclusive boarding school? She would have been out of reach of your brother’s cruelty, while you and her mother could have had a secret life together as you plotted against Loren.”

“We already did,” Tasha told him, not noticing how her lawyer collapsed in shock upon the sectional sofa she had been sitting on. “How do you think we got the goods on Loren and Rose? I didn’t give a damn how many bitches he slept with, but when the hypocrite refused to give me my freedom and kept accusing me of sleeping with his brother--well, I decided I might as well do what he kept accusing me of, since it was what I wanted to do anyway. Besides, Loren would never have agreed to send Holly away to any school. He wanted her here, to control me by threatening to hurt her if I didn’t obey him.”

Quilleran nodded sympathetically, noting out of the corner of his eye that Arbuthnot was now ten minutes late. “I understand; it’s not easy for an abused wife to disobey her husband, especially when there’s a child involved who can be hurt instead of you. But you’re a wealthy woman in your own right. Why didn’t you use your own money to get Holly out of danger?”

“She didn’t want to go,” Tasha told him, gripping her hands together as her hard blue eyes became moist with tears. “She told me she was afraid to leave me here alone with Daddy. She knew what a bad temper he had, and how he liked to hit me whenever we argued. She said as long as she was here, she could keep him from hurting me too badly. She said he never hit her as much as he hit me.” She sobbed briefly, remembering how bravely her little girl had confided in her. “She was trying to protect me.”

There was a poignant pause while all four of them stood or sat tableau-fashion, looking at each other as if frozen in time, wondering what to do next. The brief silence was broken by the hoarse voice of Homn out in the foyer saying, “No, Miss Holly, don’t go in there!” The next moment, a young girl in her teens ran into the room. She had short, black hair worn pageboy style, and the same pale complexion as her uncle, along with his dark eyes. Her slender build, emphasized by the skinny jeans she wore, could have only come from her mother.

“Uncle Larry!” she cried. “Uncle Larry, the cops are here! You have to go!” A startled Lawrence Soong turned his head toward his niece as she ran in to warn him about the cops. Quilleran chose that moment to rush him, grabbing his right wrist with both hands and forcing it over his head, so that the gun he held discharged itself into the ceiling. Holly cried out, backing away from the stranger manhandling her uncle. As Quilleran strained to keep Lawrence’s gun hand in the air, he saw that she was wearing a gold angel pin identical to her mother’s on the left breast pocket of her long-sleeved red tee shirt.

“Holly!” cried Tasha, looking frantically from her child to her lover struggling in the reporter’s grip, wondering which one to run to. Before she could decide, Detective Arbuthnot burst into the room, followed by two uniformed police officers.

“Everybody freeze!” Arbuthnot yelled. “Who fired that shot?” He saw Quilleran holding Lawrence Soong’s gun hand over his head and went over to assist him. Lawrence surrendered without a struggle, letting the cop disarm him and put the cuffs on him. After telling him his rights, the detective turned to Quilleran, an exasperated look on his face. “Quilleran, the next time you decide to confront a murderer, make sure that the cavalry is right behind you, not fifteen minutes away!”

“Well, I admit I wanted you to make an entrance. But I thought you’d get here a lot sooner. What took you so long? Heavy traffic?”

“That and Lurch out in the hall,” Arbuthnot jerked a thumb over his shoulder, “who kept telling us that Mr. Lawrence was ‘not in to visitors’. When I started waving my arrest warrant in his face, that little lady there—” he pointed at Holly, “came around the corner, saw us and ran off. I knew she was going to warn her uncle, so I shoved the butler out of the way and went after her, hoping she’d lead us straight to her uncle. And she did!” the cop concluded triumphantly, regarding his handcuffed prisoner like a trophy.

“I’m sorry, Uncle Larry,” Holly said tearfully. “I tried to get here before the cops did to warn you.”

“It’s all right, sweetheart,” Lawrence told her gently. “Take care of your mother while I’m away. I know she was only trying to help me too.”

“But why were you so determined to protect her?” Quilleran wondered aloud. “Unless—” He stared at the angel pin on Holly’s shirt, then at the one on Tasha’s blouse. Then he saw the gold ring with the heart-shaped red stone on her right hand, as she clutched her hands before her in the same nervous gesture she’d been using all night, as she stared longingly at Lawrence. “Of course! Why didn’t I notice it sooner?”

“Notice what?” asked the detective.

“Look at the ring Mrs. Soong is wearing on her right hand. That’s a friendship ring, what you give someone when you’re ‘engaged to be engaged’. Did your husband give you that?”

“No, Lawrence did, while we were at college together,” she said.

“Did he also give you the engagement ring?”

“No, Loren gave me this after he convinced me to marry him,” she said, looking down at the big diamond disdainfully. “He wanted to show up Lawrence for only giving me this little garnet ring. The only time he ever spent money on me was to make his brother look bad.”

“But Lawrence gave you the angel pin, didn’t he? With the same garnet heart as the friendship ring?” Tasha nodded, touching the angel pin with loving fingers. “He also gave one to your daughter. To show that he loved you both and was willing to wait for you.” He turned to Lawrence, who was standing there with his jaw clenched as if preparing himself for the worst. “That’s why you were so determined to get Tasha back, and fight for custody of Holly as well. She’s not your niece, she’s your daughter.”

Tasha let out an anguished groan and covered her face with her hands. Holly stared at her mother, then at Lawrence. “Uncle Larry, what is he saying?” Lawrence only hung his head in shame. The girl looked at her mother, who was now sobbing into her hands. “Mommy, is it true? Is Uncle Larry really my father?”

Nathan Zek jumped up off the sofa and ran over to his weeping client. “Don’t say another word, Tasha, not another word! He can’t prove a thing! He probably doesn’t even have that recording he threatened us with.”

“Oh, yes he does! And so do I,” said Arbuthnot. “I played my copy the minute I found it when I got in tonight. After I heard it, I grabbed a couple of uniforms, got an arrest warrant, and got over here on the double. Between the traffic and the butler, we almost didn’t make it. Looks like we got here in the nick of time. Thanks to Quilleran, we got ourselves a murderer, and the gun he used.” He held up the gun he had taken from Lawrence, then held it out to one of the uniforms. “Here, bag this and get it to evidence. Tell them to get one of the bullets from Gary Seven’s body and compare it to the one Larry here fired into the ceiling. My guess is they’ll be as identical as Larry and his brother were.”

“Of course they’ll be identical,” Lawrence said wearily. “Father always gave us identical presents for Christmas and our birthday. When we were kids, we got the same Star Trek action figures. When we were teenagers, we got the same cars. When we both took up shooting, he gave us identical pistols.”

“So you used your own gun to shoot my husband, after shooting your brother with his gun,” Quilleran said.

“Yes, I did. I’m sorry I did it. I wasn’t thinking straight. I was trying to protect Holly from the truth. I was afraid it would come out at Tasha’s trial that she married my brother on the rebound while she was already pregnant.”

Holly stared at him with tears in her big, dark eyes and ran to her mother. Both ladies embraced and cried in each other’s arms. Zek petted them both comfortingly, looking sad and confused.

“What the devil is going on here?” said a querulous old man’s voice. Quilleran, who was tired of being sneaked up on, turned around quickly to see an old man with long, white hair hanging limply on either side of his bald dome, wearing a red bathrobe over white silk pajamas, come limping into the living room on a cane.

“Good evening, sir. Doctor Noonien Soong, I assume?” Quilleran asked.

“You assume correctly,” the old man said, leaning on his cane as he looked around at the chaos in his home. “Will somebody please tell me what’s going on?”

“Grandpa!” Holly wailed, leaving her mother to run to him. “Grandpa, Mommy didn’t kill Daddy! Uncle Larry did! I saw him! I wanted to tell you, but I was scared of what it would do to you. The doctor said you could have another heart attack if you got too upset.”

“Now, now, honey, you know your old grandpa is tougher than that,” Dr. Soong assured his granddaughter as he hugged her. “How else could I have survived so long under the same roof with those two troublesome boys of mine?”

“Did you know that your son Lawrence shot his twin brother?” Quilleran asked him.

“No, I never suspected it. I thought his wife had finally gotten tired of being beaten and decided to fight back. About time, too. I knew Loren was a lousy husband, but as long as Tasha never complained, I couldn’t do a thing about it. She was too proud to admit she made a mistake, married the wrong brother.” He looked sadly at his daughter-in-law, who hung her head as she clenched her hands before her, tears still running down her face. “I knew she and Lawrence had a thing going on too, but I kept my mouth shut. Figured she was entitled, after finding out about Loren and Rose. What a mess.” The old man shook his head. “It was like a bloody soap opera around here, with people sleeping around, getting into fights, messing with the family business. My wife got tired of the drama and took off after the boys came to work for me. She broke my heart, but I couldn’t really blame her. I never knew what those boys of mine would be up to next.”

“Did you know that your granddaughter was fathered by Lawrence, not Loren?”

“I had my suspicions,” Dr. Soong admitted, as he stood with one arm around Holly’s slender shoulders. “Especially when she was born seven and a half months after the wedding. But she was so small, it was easy to believe she was premature, like her mother said she was. Her doctor backed her up, so I guess he was either loyal or well paid. But I didn’t care who her father was, she was still my only granddaughter. Her folks never stopped fighting long enough to make another one, so she’s all I got to leave my business and my money to.” He smiled at Holly fondly as she rested her little dark head on his shoulder, like a child seeking comfort. “My poor girl. Don’t you worry, I’ll make sure your mother and your uncle—er, father, both have good lawyers. You can stay on as Tasha’s lawyer, Zek, but I think Lawrence and Tasha will be better off tried separately.”

“Why does Mommy have to be tried?” Holly asked. “She didn’t kill Daddy.”

“She made a false confession, honey. That’s a crime,” her grandfather explained. “Whether she goes to jail or not is up to the judge.”

So Arbuthnot made two arrests that night, taking both Lawrence and Tasha into custody after reading them their Miranda Rights. As the cops led them away, the lovers paused in the doorway long enough to exchange a kiss. Arbuthnot waited a few moments before telling them to break it up, instructing the officers to put them in separate squad cars for the drive to the police station. Zek was on his cell phone talking to his law firm, telling them to send one of his young protégés to act as Lawrence’s defense lawyer. “That’s right, send young Eisenberg, he’s already gotten his feet wet in the Shimerman case. Tell him to meet us at the police station. I’m going there now. Goodbye.”

Quilleran watched the lovers being led away, wondering why he didn’t feel more satisfied to see his husband’s murderer in custody. Perhaps because the sight of the man’s daughter, still weeping on her grandfather’s shoulder, reminded him that not all murderers are cold-blooded monsters. Some were just ordinary people forced to kill by extraordinary circumstances. He wanted to say something comforting to Holly, but the way her grandfather was looking at him warned him he’d be better off making a discreet exit, stage right. So he left quietly, passing the silent butler, who handed him his coat as if it were infested with fleas, looking at him as if wishing he had never let him in the house. The butler’s cold look didn’t remain with him as long as the sound of Holly’s weeping, which followed him out of the room and remained with him long into the night, making even Quinn’s congratulations sound hollow.

********

THURSDAY, MARCH 29TH, 6:00 p.m., 2012

When he finished his story, Quilleran pulled his husband close and sat holding him for a while. Picard rested his head on the sturdy shoulder while listening to the steady beat of his heart. Neither man spoke until Isis began scratching at the door again. The forlorn mewing outside reminded them that there was little time left. So Quilleran reluctantly released his beloved, picked up his duffle bag and headed for the door. After pausing to retrieve the toothpaste from his own traveling toiletry bag, Picard followed him, right behind Isis, who was trailing Daddy Q like a little black shadow as he headed for the apartment door.


	9. Chapter 9

“THE BAD SHEPHERD” Part 9 of 15

_“Mama's gonna make all of your nightmares come true._

_Mama's gonna put all her fears into you._

_Mama's gonna keep you right here under her wing._

_She won't let you fly, but she might let you sing._

_Mama's gonna keep baby cozy and warm._

_Ooooh baby, ooooh baby, oooooh baby,_

_Yes, mama's gonna help build the wall.”_

“Mother”, Pink Floyd, 1994

RHINELAND, NEW YORK FRIDAY, MARCH 30th, 9:30 A.M., 2012

Quilleran sat staring at a painting on the wall outside the Mother Superior’s office at Saint Ann’s Maternity Home. It showed the infant Moses floating in his basket on the Nile River, being found by Pharaoh's daughter. As he was wondering what this particular painting was supposed to symbolize in a home for unwed mothers, he started remembering the last conversation he had with Carol Marcus in New York City, when she told him of her baby’s death:

_“I woke up after what felt like the longest day of my life, to see the sun setting from the window beside my bed. I was in the lying-in room, next to the infirmary, where all the girls go after giving birth. At first I thought I was the only one there, till I saw another girl sleeping in a bed across the room. I was so sore, and so thirsty, and my head ached almost as much as my body. While I was lying there, blinking my eyes at the ceiling, which had patchy white paint that looked like white clouds, I heard someone say my name. When I turned my head, I saw Father McKenzie sitting by my bed. He looked so serious, I knew something was wrong. I tried to speak, but my throat was so dry I could only whisper ‘What?’ before I started to cough. He poured me a glass of cold water and helped me sit up to drink it. When I finished it, I asked him ‘What is it, Father? Is my baby all right?’_

_“He looked at me sadly while he said, ‘Carol, dear, I’m so sorry. Doctor Felix did everything he could for your baby, but he was too small, too weak. He died shortly after taking his first breath.’_

_“I felt as if all the breath had been squeezed out of me. I just stared at him while he sat there looking at me, so sad and so serious. When I finally got my breath back, I said: ‘Father, did you just tell me that my baby is dead?’_

_“He nodded his head and said, ‘Yes, dear girl, I’m afraid he is. The doctor believes that his lungs were underdeveloped. He only took one breath and let out a little cry before he passed on. He just drifted away, poor little fellow. At least it was painless. He’s with the Lord’s angels now.’_

_“I started crying and couldn’t stop. Father McKenzie petted me on the back and said soothing things about babies’ souls being as pure as the angels, and how they always went straight to heaven when they died. Then I remembered what I learned in religious instruction when I was a little girl, and I said to him, ‘Father, was my baby baptized? He can’t get into heaven unless he’s baptized.’ He tried to tell me that it wasn’t necessary, but I insisted that my baby be baptized. I told him to bring me my baby and baptize him, or I would tell my father that his grandson’s body was thrown out with the trash._

_“He looked nervous for a moment, then he started smiling and saying, ‘Of course, of course, I’ll bring you your baby. You just wait here.’ He left the room for a while, and when he came back, he was carrying a dead baby wrapped in a blue blanket. He handed it to me and said ‘There’s your little boy, Carol. He’s already grown cold and the blood has settled in his neither regions, so I would advise you not to unwrap him. It’s not a pretty sight. Just look at his little face and impress it on your heart, like Mother Mary did when they laid Baby Jesus in her arms. The memory of that baby face was the only thing that comforted her when she saw her grown son hanging from the cross.’_

_“I held my baby for the first and last time and looked at his little dead face. He was so beautiful; he had curly blond hair like me and long eyelashes. I couldn’t see what color his eyes were, they were closed. I didn’t have the heart to pry one of his eyelids open, just to see what color his eyes were, but I like to think they were hazel, like his father’s. He had a stocky build that reminded me of Jim, and of my grandfather David. So when Father McKenzie asked me what name I wanted to give him I said: ‘David, after my grandfather.’_

_“So Father McKenzie poured holy water over the baby’s head, saying ‘I baptize thee, David, in the name of the Father and of the Son and of the Holy Ghost.’ And he let me hold him a little bit longer before he told me I should rest now and took the baby away. Then I lay down and cried until I fell asleep.”_

A nun in the contemporary knee-length habit and short veil came out of the office and informed him, “Mother Alice will see you now.”

A startled Quilleran almost fell out of his chair. He recovered quickly and rose to his feet, gathering his dignity about him, along with his reporters’ accoutrements—notebook, pen, press ID, letter of introduction from his parish priest (Father Joseph’s idea; he told Quilleran that the nuns would be less suspicious of him if a member of the clergy vouched for him). Armed with these frail weapons, along with the plastic daisy recorder in the lapel of his black blazer, he followed the nun into the inner sanctum of Mother Alice’s office.

She was watering a plant upon her desk, which was right in front of a window with a view of the grounds outside. The plant was a beautiful hot pink orchid, a single tall bloom in a bright green pot. She turned toward him, smiling, a pink plastic watering pot in her right hand. “Ah, Mr. Quilleran! Welcome to Saint Ann’s Maternity Home.”

“Thank you, Mother Alice,” he said respectfully, careful to address her by her correct title, not “Sister Alice”. She was a tall woman, who almost stood eye-to-eye with the six foot, four inch reporter. He thought she was wearing high heels, but a glance at her feet showed that she was wearing sensible black shoes with her knee-length black habit. A white coif and short, black veil framed her pale face. She looked healthy enough, with a faint flush of pink in her cheeks and lips. It was her eyes that gave him pause. They were a pale gray, like silver. But when she tilted her head at a certain angle, the light reflected off her eyes, making them look more like stainless steel; cold, metallic, like a robot’s eyes. The smile on her face also looked mechanical, like something programmed to appear automatically on her face whenever she greeted visitors.

“I understand you wish to write an article about the home?” she said, looking straight at him with her mechanical smile and her metallic silver eyes. Her voice was pleasantly modulated, with a motherly tone to it, but it also seemed artificial. Beneath the veneer of motherliness, it was as cold and emotionless as a cyborg’s.

“Actually, I intend to write about unwed motherhood and how it’s regarded then and now. I’m sure you’re familiar with the current cultural attitude toward unwed mothers, and the celebrities who have made it popular.”

“Ah, yes,” she sighed, “a lot of our girls end up here because they chose to emulate these celebrities. They don’t realize that there’s a big difference between a rich movie star with a live-in celebrity boyfriend, who can afford a fulltime nanny and a private daycare center, and an unemployed high school student living with her parents.”

“Yes, young girls then and now don’t have much sense when it comes to love,” he agreed. “Do you find that Catholic schoolgirls are more likely to get in trouble now than they were in the past? By ‘trouble’, I mean—” he waved one hand over his stomach as if it were swollen with pregnancy.

“Yes, I know what you mean.” She smiled broadly, as if she had heard this many times before and was just humoring him. She offered him a seat by the window and sat down beside him instead of behind the desk, where they spent the next hour and a half discussing modern society’s attitude toward unwed motherhood, debating at what age children should be taught about sex, whether the Catholic Church’s ban on birth control and abortion had anything to do with the rate of teenage pregnancies. As they talked, Quilleran noticed some people passing through the garden, still empty of flowers, outside the window. It was a sunny day, warmer than usual for March, because a group of twelve pregnant girls were wearing their coats open over the blue and gray school uniform of Saint Ann’s as they walked by in a double line, escorted by two nuns in black coats at the end of the line and a lay teacher in a navy blue coat at the head, going toward a building on the far left. “Where are those girls going?” Quilleran asked.

“That would be our mid-morning music class, heading for the conservatory,” Mother Alice told him, gazing out the window serenely at the double line of pregnant girls, waddling along like ducklings following their mother as the nuns brought up the rear. “All of them play a musical instrument. We have a school band that plays on special occasions, usually at our graduation class in June. We also have a choir, where girls who sing are encouraged to raise their voices for the glory of God.”

He nodded, seeing two more pregnant girls coming from the right side of the paved garden path, both carrying violin cases, also escorted by two nuns. “I understand you have a gym here too. How athletic are pregnant girls permitted to get?”

“Our girls are encouraged to continue playing their favorite sports until the third trimester, because of the greater risk of injury to the unborn child. We have tennis, soccer, basketball and softball. We also have swimming, which is possible all year round thanks to our indoor heated pool.”

“It sounds like you’re well equipped for the needs of your residents,” Quilleran remarked.

“We prefer to refer to them as our students. Our school is accredited by New York State, so that no one needs to fall behind in her studies while she is out of circulation, so to speak.” She gave him another of her feigned smiles that didn’t dispel the coldness in her eyes.

“So a girl can earn a real high school diploma here, not a GED?” As he spoke, he noticed a girl walking by herself, coming from the right wing of the main house, where they sat. She wore a long, loose black coat over her uniform and carried a guitar case in her left hand. She kept looking around fearfully, as if afraid of being spotted. Instead of joining the long line of girls at the end of the path to the conservatory, she lagged behind, as if intending to catch up to them. But as soon as they were all inside the building, she quickened her pace. Her long, black hair framed a pretty face with a dark complexion. Her features had a distinctly Hispanic cast to them that made him think she was Puerto Rican. She reached the conservatory and kept on walking, a determined look on her pretty face. Quilleran realized she was heading for the front gate, which was kept locked, but had a security guard on duty to admit visitors and deliveries and let girls out who had passes to go to town. He wondered if this girl had a pass. From the way she was sneaking around, he doubted it.

Just as she passed the door of the conservatory and he was wondering how she intended to get pass the security guard at the gate, he heard yelling in the distance. Two uniformed security guards, both female, suddenly ran into the empty garden. “Lorena! Hey, Lorena! Where do you think you’re going?” they yelled.

The girl got scared when she saw them. She broke into a run, clutching her guitar case. She ran as fast as she could, but she didn’t get far. Both the guards caught up to her easily and pounced on her, grabbing her by an arm on either side. She screamed “No! No!” and struggled to get away. But they picked her up off the ground and carried her between them, her legs kicking like a little girl having a tantrum. They were both big, strong women who looked quite comfortable in their blue uniforms; Quilleran guessed that they were veterans.

Mother Alice noticed the commotion and looked out the window. “Oh, dear,” she sighed. “It looks like another of our girls tried to make a break for it.”

“Does that happen often?” he asked.

“Often enough to make it necessary to have two female security guards on duty at all times,” the nun informed him. “Ursula and Beatrice Durossi are sisters and veterans who are experienced at handling recalcitrant prisoners. They were guards at a detention center in Iraq.”

“But surely your girls aren’t prisoners here?”

“Of course not, Mr. Quilleran. But some silly girls will always try to run away. They foolishly believe that they can make it on their own, without completing high school or having any usable job skills or experience. Most of them think that their baby’s father will help them, even marry them if they appeal to him.” She shook her head sadly. “They don’t seem to understand that they wouldn’t be here if their baby’s father really cared about them.”

Quilleran remembered what Carol’s mother had told him about the girls who had written secretly to their baby’s fathers, begging them to come and rescue them from this place. None of those boys had ever replied, or even shown their faces at the front gate asking to see their baby mamas. At least Carol had thought that Jim was dead, so she could mourn him and get on with her life. But those other poor girls were in limbo, wondering if their baby’s father was alive or dead or just didn’t love them anymore. Or maybe he had never loved them...

The phone rang on Mother Alice’s desk. She excused herself and went to the desk to pick it up. “Yes?” she said and then listened to the caller for a few moments. “Yes, bring her here. She needs to be reprimanded and reminded.” She hung up and regarded him gravely. “I’m afraid I must ask you to wait outside for a while, Mr. Quilleran. Ursula and Beatrice are bringing our young escapee here to be disciplined. I would rather not embarrass her in front of a visitor.”

“I understand, Mother. I’ll just wait outside.” He went back to the little parlor outside the office that served as a waiting room. Taking the seat farthest from the office door, he made a show of going over his notes while he waited.

A few minutes later the two security guards entered, dragging Lorena between them. She was still defiant, sobbing and dragging her feet, her face streaked with tears. Quilleran kept his head down over his notebook, but sneaked a peek at her over the top. She looked scared, but stubborn, determined to take whatever Mother Alice dished out. They took her into the office and the door slammed shut behind them. Quilleran immediately jumped out of his chair, ran over and put his ear to the door.

“Lorena Milagros Perez,” said Mother Alice, not loudly, but in the stern, motherly voice of a woman about to lecture a stubborn child, “what were you thinking?”

“I was thinking it was high time I left,” the girl replied, her voice sullen, her attitude verging on disrespect. But Quilleran could tell that she was afraid of the older woman, despite her bravado.

“And just where did you intend to go, seven months pregnant, with no high school diploma or work experience, carrying a guitar? Were you planning to become a traveling minstrel, playing your guitar at bus stops and shopping malls so people could throw you enough change for your next meal?”

One of the guards spoke up; her voice was low and harsh, almost mannish. “There’s no guitar in this thing, Mother. It’s too heavy. She was using it as a suitcase.” He heard snaps being unfastened and a creaking sound, followed by a brief silence as Mother Alice examined the contents of the guitar case.

“I see,” said Mother Alice dryly. “My, that is certainly a lot of clothes and belongings you managed to stuff in there. You were willing to sacrifice your beloved guitar for the dubious freedom of the outside world?”

“I was going to meet Alfredo,” Lorena replied sullenly. “He’s waiting for me at the bus depot.”

“He’ll have a long wait,” another woman’s voice remarked. Quilleran guessed it was the other guard. She also had a low voice, but hers was huskier, almost sultry. “Unless he plans to storm the gates and carry you off on his white horse, Princess.” She and her sister laughed cruelly at the girl, who swore at them in Spanish. The woman went on. “I’ve yet to see any of those Prince Charmings come to claim their pregnant princesses. Have you, sister?” He thought she was speaking to the nun, until he heard the first guard speak again.

“No, none of those Prince Charmings have ever shown up here to storm the gates and rescue their princesses. If they did, they’d have to get past us dragons. And we do more than breathe fire.” He heard her unsnap something, followed by an electronic crackle that he recognized as a taser powering up.

“Now, now, ladies, stop showing off,” Mother Alice told them. “Put that away, Beatrice. Ursula, are you sure you didn’t see anyone lurking outside the gate?”

“No, Mother Alice,” said the first guard more respectfully. “Smalls was at his post. He swears there was nobody hanging around looking like he was waiting for someone to come out.”

“I told you he’s waiting for me at the bus station!” Lorena insisted.

“I know what you told us, dear,” Mother Alice said patiently. “But it’s still possible that your young man might be waiting for you outside. After all, he needs to be sure that the money he’s marrying doesn’t slip through his fingers.”

“He loves me, not my money!” Lorena said angrily.

“You mean your grandmother’s money. You don’t get a penny until you are eighteen,” Mother Alice said coolly.

“By the time my baby is born, I will be eighteen. Then I’ll be able to leave this place. And you can’t stop me!”

“Oh yes, we can,” Mother Alice assured her calmly, in a way that made Quilleran’s blood run cold. “Your father gave us orders that you were not to leave this place until your baby had been adopted, even if you turned eighteen before it was born. Once the child has been placed in a good Catholic home, with married parents, your father will come for you himself to take you home.”

“I don’t want to see my father!” Lorena said shrilly. “I don’t want to go anywhere with him! I just want to go with Alfredo and get married!”

“You poor, foolish child,” Mother Alice chided her gently. “Your father has made great sacrifices to get you in here before your condition became apparent. Thanks to him, you’ll be able to finish high school and proceed to college in the fall as planned. Why do you want to throw away a bright future for marriage to a penniless young man?”

“He loves me! And I love him! And I’m going to keep my baby!”

“Now don’t be foolish, Lorena. You know the college that you’re going to doesn’t have child care facilities. And if it weren’t for your father’s money and your inheritance, that young man wouldn’t be so eager to marry you.”

“Yes, he would! He loves me!” Lorena insisted, almost hysterically, to a chorus of mocking laughter from the Durossi sisters.

“If he loves you so much, why didn’t he elope with you right after you told him about the baby?” came Beatrice’s harsh, hateful voice, with a sneer at her naivety.

“Oh, he really loves you all right,” chimed in Ursula. “How many letters and phone calls have you had from him since you’ve been here? Exactly zero!”

Lorena let them have it with a burst of Spanish invective. Quilleran understood every word, being familiar with the Puerto Rican, Cuban and Mexican dialects. Her Spanish was definitely Puerto Rican, as she cursed them for confiscating her cell phone and censoring her letters to her father; she questioned whether any of her friends had even received her letters, and asked if they would have bothered to tell her if Alfredo had called or written to her.

Quilleran remembered how Carol’s father had burned all of Jim’s letters and began to wonder if there was a similar policy here at Saint Ann’s, to prevent the young mothers-to-be from eloping with their baby’s father before the nuns could find a good Catholic married couple to adopt the child. After making a generous donation to the home, of course, as a thank offering to Saint Ann. It would explain why none of the girls ever heard from their boyfriends again after they got here. He started to get hot under the collar as he listened to the Durossi sisters mocking the young pregnant girl, until Mother Alice interrupted them to lecture her in that cool, collected, Mother-Knows-Best tone of voice.

“Perhaps a period of quiet reflection will help you appreciate the many benefits you enjoy here, Lorena. As well as the many sacrifices your father has made on your behalf. Ladies, please escort Lorena to her room. Fortunately her roommate has already left and she has yet to be assigned a new one. Just make sure the window is locked from inside and the door is locked from the outside.”

“Okay, Mother, we know the drill. Come on, Princess!” said Beatrice with sadistic glee. “You’ll be eating in tonight.”

“After we inspect the dinner tray,” Ursula added, “to make sure your Prince Charming didn’t send you a cake with a file in it!” Both laughed heartlessly as Lorena cursed them again in Spanish.

Quilleran hurried back to his seat and pretended he had dozed off. When the door opened and the guards came out escorting Lorena between them, he pretended to wake up and stared groggily at them as they went by. Lorena’s head was held high, but there were tears running down her face. Beatrice and Ursula both looked like the kind of tough broads cast as women’s prison guards in movies. Quilleran could easily imagine them as guards at Guantanamo. He wondered if they had been among the American soldiers accused of torturing and sexually harassing Muslim prisoners. Seeing them in person after hearing them through the office door gave him the impression that they weren’t just the home’s security guards, but Mother Alice’s private goons as well. As he watched them walk away, one of them toting the guitar case stuffed with Lorena’s possessions, he felt sorry for the young mother-to-be.

“Pitiful, isn’t she?” A startled Quilleran whirled in his seat to see the Mother Superior standing in the open office doorway with her coat on, her hands folded at her waist, where her brown olive wood rosary dangled from her belt, along with a ring of keys. The expression on her pale face was as cool and remote as her words had been, without a trace of pity for the pregnant girl.

“Yes, she is,” Quilleran agreed. “But I can’t help feeling sorry for her. How will she be punished?”

“Oh, she’ll be locked in her room overnight, deprived of TV and telephone privileges. She’ll receive dinner on a tray, but none of the other girls are allowed to visit her. If she still had a roommate, that girl would be forbidden to speak to her. And tomorrow she’ll be excused from classes to spend the entire day in her room, meditating on her sins.”

“What happened to her roommate?”

“She gave birth two days ago. She’s still in the infirmary, along with her baby. I’m afraid there were-—complications.” The nun’s pause before the last word gave him the impression that she was trying to avoid a delicate subject. But he decided to go there anyway.

“What sort of complications?”

She looked at him as if he were incredibly gauche for asking. “I’m afraid I’m not at liberty to discuss the girl’s health issues, or her baby’s. Suffice it to say that she and her baby will soon be leaving us, for the local hospital. They have a neo-natal unit that is better equipped than our infirmary.”

“Will this delay her baby’s adoption?”

“No, she will be keeping her baby. I’m afraid there is very little interest among our potential adoptive parents in babies with this particular health issue.” Mother Alice turned away before he could ask further questions, heading toward the door leading to the outer corridor. “It’s time for me to make my rounds. I can give you a tour of the grounds, if you wish.”

Quilleran hastened to follow her, keeping a keen eye out for anything unusual. He was able to use his cellphone camera to take a few pictures, with Mother Alice’s permission. Some he took without her permission, after silencing the shutter feature, like the door to the Quiet Room where girls were confined whenever they got into fights with the other girls or with the staff. He also photographed some of the pregnant girls who passed them in the halls, on their way to or from class. They mostly avoided eye contact, except for a few who looked at him desperately, pleading with their eyes for his assistance. They paid a brief visit to the infirmary, where he met Doctor Phillip Felix, a little man with thick glasses and thinning brown hair, in a white lab coat and brown slacks. His manner was jovial, but seemed forced. He kept glancing nervously at Mother Alice while he spoke, as if seeking her approval. His assistant, Sister Kessandra, a nursing nun, stood quietly at his side, wearing a white smock over her habit, and sensible white shoes. She was so small, her short, blonde hair still bright beneath her veil, she didn’t look much older than the girls at the school. Her manner was polite, but reserved.

There were bars on all the windows behind the curtains, which Mother Alice blithely assured him were to keep burglars out, but he suspected they were intended more to keep the girls in. There were other security guards on duty inside the house, all female, as big and strong as the Durossi sisters, looking like they wouldn’t mind using the tasers they wore on anybody who gave them any lip. _*If any of those women ever challenged me to arm wrestle, I’d cheat,*_ he thought.

When they went outside, they walked through the empty garden, now bright with sunshine and unseasonably warm, pass the conservatory to the front gate. He noticed a UPS truck parked outside the gate; the driver appeared to be arguing with the gatekeeper. Angry voices carried on the wind toward him and Mother Alice. The nun gave a thoughtful frown as she wondered aloud, “What is UPS doing here at this time of day? Our supplies are scheduled to be delivered at three in the afternoon.”

“Maybe he’s a new driver who doesn’t know the schedule,” Quilleran suggested. At that moment, the UPS driver stopped arguing, got back into his truck and drove away.

“Curious,” Mother Alice remarked. “Pardon me, Mr. Quilleran, while I see what that was about.”

“Go right ahead. I’ll tag along, if you don’t mind.” He followed her to the gate, which was only a short distance from the conservatory, at the end of a paved path that would be lined with flowers and blooming trees in warm weather. For now, the bushes and trees were just beginning to show bright green new leaves at the tips of their branches, and the flowers were just beginning to show their buds.

“Mike, what was that about?” Mother Alice asked the security guard on duty inside the booth at the front gate, as she and Quilleran stood outside the rear window. “Is there a problem?”

“No problem, Mother,” Mike Smalls told her politely as he came to the window. He was a big, heavyset white man with a cheerful expression and short, brown hair. His blue uniform fit him well, despite his surplus poundage. Quilleran got the impression that he used to be a cop. “Just a new guy who thought he was supposed to pick up a special delivery here today. He kept insisting that there was supposed to be a big package waiting here for him. But I didn’t get any instructions from you or Sister Annika about a special delivery, and I kept telling him so. I guess it finally got through his thick head, ‘cause he apologized and went away just as you showed up. Maybe he was afraid you’d hit him over the knuckles with a ruler,” Mike joked.

“I guess I’d better bring my ruler along next time I go to the gate,” she said with a smile. “Thank you, Mike, please let me know if we have any other unexpected visitors today.”

“Sure, Mother, no problem.” Mike touched his fingers to his cap in a brief salute.

As they walked away down the paved path leading from the gate, Mother Alice remarked, “I must speak to Sister Annika about this special delivery. She’s my assistant, who handles the business end of our home. I take care of the administrative details.”

“Really? Could I have a word with her too?” Quilleran asked.

“Of course. I hope you don’t mind if we take the long way back to the house, I feel like getting some fresh air.”

They proceeded down the paved path leading from the gate on the right. This way led them past a section of the fifteen-foot high brick walls that surrounded the home and eventually led to a small, wooded area with a wide footpath leading between a double row of apple trees, twelve on each side. They were covered with green buds now, which would soon burst into small, fragrant white blossoms. In the distance beyond the apple orchard, Quilleran saw a white statue of an angel on a pedestal. “What is that?” he asked, pointing at the angel statue.

“That is our cemetery,” Mother Alice told him. “The Angel of Mercy stands at its entrance, holding a plaque in honor of all the innocents who are buried there.”

“You have a cemetery for dead babies?”

“Yes, not a large one. We have been fortunate in that most of our girls have given birth to live, healthy babies. But every now and then, one of these poor innocents is stillborn, or dies shortly after birth. Sometimes a young mother also dies during childbirth. Their families usually claim their daughter’s body and bury her at home, with the family doctor providing a death certificate that lists a less embarrassing cause of death. But all the babies we’ve lost are buried here.”

“That is so sad. May I see the cemetery and take a few pictures?”

“Yes, you may find the oldest tombstones at the front, near the angel statue, to be most interesting. Some were donated by the mother’s family, others by the mother herself when she was older. The more recent ones are at the back, near the wall around our property.” They walked through the little orchard with its promise of new life until they came to the white marble angel commemorating the end of new life. It was a life-sized statue of a sweet-faced female angel with folded wings, holding a brass plaque in her hands that said _“Dedicated to the memory of all the babies who were born and died here at Saint Ann’s Maternity Home, founded July 26, 1952.”_ Below this was a Biblical quotation: _“Suffer the little children to come unto me--Luke 18:16”_

About ten feet away from the angel, he saw a line of tiny tombstones dating back to 1953, the year after Saint Ann’s home was founded. None of the tombstones was higher than two feet. There were plain slabs of concrete with the baby’s name and date of birth and death carved into them. There were more expensive stones of granite and marble, some square, some rounded on top, with an angel or a heart carved above the name and dates. There were flat stones shaped like open books, which bore the name and birth/death date on the left page and a brief verse from the Bible or a poem on the right. The further they walked, the more tiny tombstones they saw. But they began to thin out as they came closer to the wall bordering the property. The more recent ones were closest to the wall, lined up with wide spaces between them. When they to the section with stones from the 1960’s, he began looking for one tombstone in particular.

He spotted it beneath a willow tree, whose spreading boughs bore only tiny green leaves. He pictured it in summertime covered with long, narrow green leaves which would all but hide the tiny tombstone. It was a small, white marble rectangle, set on one narrow end, edged with braided scrollwork, the inscription carved into the exact center, in bold, black letters:

**_David Marcus_ **

**_Born and Died_ **

**_March 13, 1967_ **

He lingered here, brushing aside the willow branches to get a better look at the stone. “Here’s a cute little stone. It’s practically hidden by this willow.”

“That is a weeping willow. It was planted right after the grave was dug,” Mother Alice explained. “Back then, it was just a sapling. It took forty-five years for it to grow to this size.”

“I wonder how tall little David would have grown, had he lived?” Quilleran mused, remembering how Captain Kirk had been tall enough to look him in the eye with his head tilted back. But Admiral Marcus had been over six feet tall, from the photos he had seen of him. Which of them would Carol’s son have taken after? He knelt before the tiny tombstone, remembering the dream he’d had of a baby’s skeleton bursting out of its’ grave and crying “I’m not dead!”

_*Are you there, David?*_ he wondered, staring silently at the stone. _*Are you really buried under that stone? Or did they bury an empty coffin? Or maybe the body of that stillborn girl who was born the same day that you were.*_ He used his cellphone to take a picture of the tiny tombstone.

“We should be heading back, Mr. Quilleran,” Mother Alice told him, gently but firmly.

“In a few minutes, Mother. It’s so quiet and peaceful here. Just let me say a little prayer for this poor baby.”

She sighed. “All right, but don’t take too long. It’s past time for lunch. I’m sure you would appreciate a nice hot lunch before you go.”

_*Is she hinting that it’s time for me to go? There must be a reason why she doesn’t want me to linger out here,*_ he thought. He bowed his head and closed his eyes as he pretended to pray. While he was kneeling at David Marcus’ grave, with Mother Alice looming over him in her black habit and black coat, a nun suddenly came running up to them. The sensible white shoes she wore, along with the glimpse of a white smock beneath her blue coat, proclaimed her a nurse. He recognized her as Sister Kessandra.

“Oh, Mother, there you are!” said the nun breathlessly. She had a message pad in one hand with a note written on it, which she held out to the mother superior. “The hospital in town is being difficult about admitting that poor girl. You know, the one whose baby didn’t get adopted?”

Mother Alice said hastily, “Yes, yes, what about her?” as she turned away from Quilleran to deal with the matter. While she and the nun were talking in low voices, huddled over the notepad, Quilleran noticed something unusual about the tombstone and leaned closer to examine it.

_*That’s strange, this stone looks awfully new for its age. At least the inscription does. The braiding at the edge is time worn, you can see the pitting from years of exposure to sun and rain, wind and cold. But the letters on the inscription look as clean-cut as if they were newly carved.*_ He reached out to touch the name “David Marcus”. Instead of cold stone, he felt—plastic? Puzzled, he ran his fingers over the name and suddenly felt it sag beneath his touch. He slipped his fingers under the thin white line that suddenly appeared above the name and tugged gently. The whole section suddenly slipped down, revealing itself to be a fake sign made of white plastic the same color and texture as the stone, like the fake tombstones sold in costume shops at Halloween. Beneath it he caught a glimpse of another name: Emily Maxwell.

He automatically took a picture of the revealed name, even as he felt himself going cold from shock. Swiftly he tugged the name sign back into place and leaned back on his heels, just as Mother Alice turned around. She saw the reporter kneeling at the infant’s grave, still regarding it with silent reverence, and said to him, “I’m afraid we must head back to the house, Mr. Quilleran. I must deal with this matter personally.”

“Coming, Mother!” he said playfully as he hoisted himself to his feet. He brushed dirt off the knees of his pants and followed her and the younger nun out of the cemetery, looking back only once at the tombstone with the name “David Marcus”.

_*Who was Emily Maxwell? What is she doing in David Marcus’ grave? Unless he was never buried there to begin with. But why go to the trouble of making a false nameplate to put over the stone of a baby who died the same day he was born? Unless David Marcus is really alive! But that means that they were expecting me to look for his grave. Which means that they knew that I was coming here.*_ He started to feel cold again, and it wasn’t just from the chilly wind blowing through the little cemetery. _*How did they know I was coming here? And when did they make that fake name plate for the tombstone?*_

_********_

FRIDAY, MARCH 30th, 12:20 P.M., 2012

Back at the house, Quilleran joined the Mother Superior for lunch in her office as she explained what the emergency had been about. “It seems the father of the girl who gave birth recently is being difficult about allowing her to use his health insurance. I’m sure he is disappointed that the child hasn’t been adopted already. Unless I can convince him to allow his daughter to use his coverage, she’s going to have to go on Welfare.”

“Well, if she means to keep the baby anyway, she should cut all ties with her father,” Quilleran recommended. “It’s no shame to be on Welfare. As long as she finishes school and finds a job after she graduates.”

“Yes, but it’s a shame she has to be estranged from her father, on account of a baby she never wanted.”

“Well, she wants it now. Isn’t it a woman’s prerogative to change her mind?” He regarded her challengingly over the baked ziti they were eating at the low coffee table in her office.

“Of course it is. But I believe she would be better off without the child, so she can finish her high school education and go on to college, as she planned to before she became pregnant.” Mother Alice sighed and took a sip of coffee from a pretty blue china cup. “It’s a hard world out there, especially for single mothers and their children. Why any girl with a chance to reclaim her life by surrendering her child would pass up that chance is a mystery to me. After all, it’s the sensible thing to do.”

“Perhaps this time motherly love was stronger than sensibility,” he suggested, before biting a breadstick. It was big, soft, and fresh, tasted like garlic and looked homemade. So did the ziti, and the plate of lemon tarts on the side. He wondered if the girls of Saint Ann’s ate this well.

“Well, it’s going to take more than love to feed and clothe that child without a father’s help. Neither her own father nor the child’s father seems inclined to help her.”

“Then she’ll have to help herself. Women are more independent nowadays than they used to be, Mother. That’s why unwed motherhood is so common, because it just doesn’t shock people the way that it used to.”

“It shocked her father badly enough to send her here,” she reminded him sternly. “As it did the parents of all the other girls here. Despite modern society’s casual attitude toward unwed motherhood, there are still places where it is unacceptable. At Saint Ann’s Maternity Home, it is our duty to protect these girls from their own foolishness, to insure that they are able to return home and be accepted by respectable people.”

“You mean get on with their lives, pretend that nothing happened to them the last nine months?” He looked at her with his most blasé expression, while the light of mischief gleamed from his brown eyes. “Do you provide them with cover stories about boarding schools and European vacations to explain their absences? Are the adoptions all closed and private? Suppose a child adopted from Saint Ann’s suddenly comes down with a rare illness? Would you allow the adoptive parents to contact the mother for her medical history?”

“Well, of course!” said Mother Alice with a touch of impatience. “Nothing is more important than the well-being of a child.”

“What about a grown adoptee who comes here looking for information about their birth mother? Has that ever happened?”

“No, thankfully all our adoptees have the sense to be satisfied with the people who raised them. Why would they want to get in touch with a mother who gave them up?”

“To ask her why?” he suggested softly.

She looked away from him while she pondered this question. He studied her profile and thought she looked a bit sad, as if he had awakened a long-forgotten memory. But she appeared to get over it quickly; when she looked back at him, her pale face was as calm and serene as ever. “Come, Mr. Quilleran, let’s not waste time speculating over what might be,” she chided him gently. “The important thing is that these girls and their babies be protected from the judgmental attitudes of the society in which their families move. After all, what is acceptable in the South Bronx is not at all acceptable south of Park Avenue.”

“So you’re saying that these girls are all ‘from good homes’?” He put down his fork so he could use both hands to make quotation marks in the air before him, with a sardonic smile. “And it wouldn’t do at all for a nice Catholic girl from a good home to give birth out of wedlock. Especially if her parents are very prominent and well-connected in political and social circles. By the way, aside from Lorena, I haven’t seen any black girls here. I’ve noticed you have plenty of light-skinned Latinas, even a few Asians, but I haven’t seen any other black girls. Aren’t they welcome at Saint Ann’s?” He stared at her innocently, but with the unmistakable gleam of mischief still in his eyes.

Mother Alice’s pale gray eyes looked as if she wished she could disintegrate him on the spot. “Of course there are black girls here,” she assured him frostily. “Not very many, of course. Most of them come from abroad. Their parents are in the diplomatic service, or employed by an international corporation.”

“But still prominent enough to afford the fees here at Saint Ann’s, eh? Exactly how much do you charge for a girl’s stay here?”

She was glad to switch from social mores to finances, as she recited a list of expenses for the average resident of Saint Ann’s, from the cost of room and board for the duration of her pregnancy to the culmination of said pregnancy in their infirmary, where Dr. Phillip Felix was on call 24/7, along with Sister Kessandra. They were affiliated with the local Catholic hospital, Our Lady of Mercy, where the girls were sent if there were complications, or the babies if they were underweight or handicapped and required special care not available at Saint Ann’s. He nodded and took notes as she spoke, but even before he had added it all up, he came to the conclusion that it wasn’t cheap to send your pregnant daughter to Saint Ann’s if you wanted to keep her pregnancy a secret. He thought of all the childless couples who had been on an adoption waiting list for years, desperate for a child, preferably a healthy white child, who would be willing to pay any price for such a child, no questions asked. He remembered the many signs of affluence here at Saint Ann’s; Mother Alice’s stylishly decorated office, the tailored uniforms on the security guards, the beautiful drapes which hid the bars on the windows, the beautifully laid out garden path leading to the main house, as well as the conservatory. And this tasty lunch, which he hastened to finish before it got cold; it certainly didn’t look like institutional food. Did Mother Alice have a private chef? Or was it just another of the perks she was able to afford thanks to the generous thank offerings to Saint Ann she received from grateful adoptive parents?

As he was taking notes over his empty plate, a nun entered the office, the same one who had admitted him earlier. Her short veil exposed her blonde hair just above her forehead, her white face was beautiful but grave, with full, pink lips, and a pair of serious blue eyes. She paused before the low table where lunch was laid out and asked Mother Alice in a soft, low voice, “Are you finished with lunch, Mother? Shall I have it cleared away?”

“No, not yet. Do have one of these lemon tarts, dear. They are excellent with coffee.”

“Perhaps later, Mother. I must get in touch with UPS about that special delivery the driver mentioned. I believe he came here on the wrong day, to pick up some ink jets that are the wrong size.”

“By all means, Sister. I’m sure it was their error, not yours. Oh, by the way, this is Mr. Quilleran, a journalist from The Boston Globe here to write about modern attitudes toward unwed pregnancy. Mr. Quilleran, this is my assistant, Sister Annika.”

“Hello, Sister Annika,” he greeted her, wondering where he’d heard that name before. Then he remembered; he heard Carol’s voice in his head saying: _“She was a novice who befriended me while I was there. She and Kes were the only ones who showed me and the other girls any real kindness.”_ He looked again at the nun and saw how much younger she was than the mother superior, but with the same grave expression. At least her blue eyes didn’t have that hard look behind a façade of sympathy. But there was sadness behind her eyes, and a hint of anxiety in the fine lines around her eyes and mouth. She nodded to him gravely and turned away to look through the files in a file cabinet next to the window.

While he was staring at her, trying to think of what to say, he heard Mother Alice ask him if he wanted more coffee. He snapped out of it and said, “Of course, and one of those lovely lemon tarts too, please.” In between bites and sips, he said casually, “I’d like to compare the way the girls here are treated then and now. For now, I can use that unfortunate girl Lorena. But for then, I’d like to use a former student of yours. Do you remember Carol Marcus?”

“Carol Marcus?” Mother Alice paused, holding the pretty blue cup and saucer in her hands as she sat thinking. “Oh, yes, Carol Marcus. She was here in the late sixties. I don’t suppose she has fond memories of us here. Very few of our girls do.”

“Yes, when I interviewed her about her past, she was quite bitter about the way she was treated, by both you and her father. Apparently she was sent here by her father after she became pregnant from a boy he didn’t approve of. She believes her baby died as a result of the medical treatment she received here, which she says was inadequate.”

Oh, dear.” Mother Alice shook her head, looking disappointed. “Everyone blames the doctor when the patient dies. Especially when the patient is a baby. I assure you, Mr. Quilleran, Carol received the best of care while she was here. Her baby died because of underdeveloped lungs, not from any fault of our good Doctor Felix.”

Quilleran nodded, but looked skeptical. “I’m sure Doctor Felix did his best. But was his best good enough? I heard a rumor that he was fond of drinking, and lost his job with Saint Anthony’s Hospital in Philadelphia on that account.”

“Doctor Felix’s past was well behind him when he came to work here. I assure you he was clean and sober when he delivered Carol Marcus’ baby, along with all the other babies he’s delivered through the years. He would never do anything to jeopardize a new mother or her baby. He’s as dedicated to his job as any of the nuns or lay workers here.”

While she was speaking, her assistant looked up from the open file drawer. She caught his eye and shook her head at him. He looked curiously at her. She cupped her right hand and brought it briefly to her mouth to indicate drinking. She then touched the sleeve of her black habit, then picked up a letter in a postmarked envelope and held it up.

_*Black. Mail.*_ Quilleran thought. _*Of course, blackmail! That must be why Dr. Felix is so dedicated. Because he knows he’ll never be able to get a job anywhere else.*_ He nodded to let Sister Annika know he understood. He looked at Mother Alice and said, “I understand you had some difficulty when you first opened this home. The good citizens of this town must have been outraged at the thought of having unwed mothers in their midst, setting a bad example for their daughters.”

“The good citizens of Rhineland welcomed us with open arms,” she informed him, with a trace of smugness in her smile. “Especially when they learned that our chief supporter was the archbishop of New York at the time, Cardinal Spellman.”

“Really?” Quilleran widened his eyes as he leaned toward her, pretending to be impressed. “You mean Cardinal Francis Joseph Spellman?”

“That’s Francis Joseph Cardinal Spellman,” she told him patiently.

“Oh, I see. Forgive me, Mother, I’m not Catholic, so I wouldn’t know the right way to refer to a cardinal.”

“When you refer to him formally or in writing, you must use his given names and his title, followed by his surname,” Mother Alice explained. “When you meet him in person, you must address him as ‘your eminence’.”

“And how did you address him? I get the impression that you were on friendly terms with him.”

“We had mutual friends,” she admitted cautiously, regarding the pretty blue cup and saucer in her hands as if they fascinated her. “All of whom helped me to achieve my goal of providing a safe haven for unfortunate girls who became pregnant out of wedlock.”

“Why was this so important to you, Mother? Did you know someone who got pregnant?”

“Yes,” she admitted, with a heavy sigh. “When I was a teenager myself, I had a very good friend named Sally. She kept pigeons in a coop on the roof of the tenement where we grew up, in New York City. Every day after school, we would come home to feed the pigeons and watch them fly free. They would always come back to feed from our hands. We longed to be as free as those pigeons, flying high and seeing the world, but always coming home in the end.

“Sally and I were so close, like sisters. We shared our secrets, told each other things we would never tell our parents. That was how I found out that she was pregnant, from the Jewish boy she was seeing behind her parents’ backs. We both knew that her parents would never allow her to marry this boy. So when she asked me to find a doctor who could relieve her of her problem, I couldn’t refuse her. Of course abortion wasn’t legal back in 1945, so I made discreet inquiries at school until one of the older girls told me of a doctor who could help. She gave me his name and phone number and I gave them to Sally. She called and made an appointment, and on a warm spring evening, just as the sun was setting, we went to this doctor’s office together. Sally had two hundred dollars in her pocketbook, from a check she cashed that her grandmother had given her for her upcoming high school graduation. I walked with her as far as the alley where the doctor’s office was located, downstairs in the basement. She was supposed to call me when it was over, so I would know she was all right. But she never did.

“The next morning, when I looked for her at school, I learned that she was dead. The police had raided the doctor’s office that night, after they received an anonymous phone call that he was performing illegal abortions. When they got there, they found Sally dead on the operating table, covered with a bloody sheet. The doctor was gone, along with all the money in her purse. Her parents were heartbroken, her boyfriend even more so. He swore he would have eloped with her if she had told him she was pregnant, braving his parents’ disapproval. Her parents never forgave him. They wouldn’t even let him come to her funeral. He had to visit her grave after everyone had left, to leave flowers and a love note. That was when I vowed to dedicate myself to God and help all the girls who found themselves in the same predicament as Sally, so that no one else’s best friend would end up lying on a bloody operating table, like a side of beef on a butcher block, bleeding her life away.”

Quilleran listened to this story with horrified fascination. “That must have been very traumatic for you, Mother Alice, having your friend die like that,” he said sympathetically. “I understand that sort of thing happened very often before abortion was legalized. How old were you then?”

“I was seventeen. Sally was also seventeen, and never got the chance to be eighteen.” She put down the cup and saucer and wiped her eyes with her napkin, holding it over her face for a moment while she collected herself. When she laid the napkin aside, her eyelashes were damp and the napkin had a couple of small, wet spots on it.

Quilleran nodded as he went over her story mentally. “Why didn’t you go back to the doctor’s office when your friend didn’t call you? You could have gone there and knocked on the door, demanded to see her.”

“It was already dark, Mr. Quilleran. I was afraid to leave my parents’ apartment alone.”

“You could have called a friend to come with you.”

“Who could I have trusted with such a secret? It wasn’t even my secret to keep, it was Sally’s. The last thing I wanted to do was betray her, make her an object of scorn and pity for all the old gossips in the neighborhood, and for all the catty girls at school to tear apart.”

“Didn’t they do that anyway, after the cops found her dead?”

Mother Alice lifted her head up, looking at him defiantly. “At least she wasn’t alive to hear it.”

“Ah, yes, death before dishonor. Isn’t that what the nuns taught you girls in school back then? Too bad your friend didn’t take it to heart.”

She glared at him with eyes like a steel blade, ready to pierce his heart. “Sally and I were both young and scared, Mr. Quilleran. We were both nice Irish Catholic girls, eager to do well in school and in life, afraid of disappointing our parents.”

Quilleran realized that he had gone too far. “I’m sorry, Mother Alice.” He reached out and touched her hand lightly. He expected her to pull away, being a nun, but she just looked at him sadly. “Forgive me, please, I’m sure that it must have been very difficult for you...” He allowed the sentence to trail off, leaving her wondering.

She shook her head, appearing somewhat flustered, before continuing. “Yes, it was extremely difficult, Mr. Quilleran, then and now. Just when I think I’ve gotten over it, it hits me right in the heart, and I feel the pain of losing my friend all over again.”

Quilleran wrinkled his brow and sighed sadly. “I don’t doubt it, not at all. I know how it feels to be different and to be burdened with a problem that cannot be shared. We’re both from the same era, Mother Alice, so I know first-hand how cruel and judgmental society was when we were growing up.”

Mother Alice’s pale complexion became even paler. She looked as though his question had affected her personally in some way. “Forgive me, Mr. Quilleran, but I do have things to attend to. The work of the Lord cannot wait--you do understand, don’t you? So, forgive me for being blunt, but what is it specifically that you wish to ask me?”

Quilleran nodded, as if he were expecting her question. “Simply this--It must have been difficult for you to lose your best friend so unexpectedly. After all, we are only human, right?”

She didn’t answer his question. “The church was there for me, Mr. Quilleran.”

Quilleran nodded solemnly. “Ah, yes, to offer you comfort after your best friend died, right? Is that why you chose to become a nun? Or was there some other reason that you would like to share with me?”

Mother Alice started to look very uncomfortable. “If there is anything more that I wish to share, it would be between me and God, Mr. Quilleran! And I must say that your line of questioning is somewhat disturbing. Are you so almighty and omnipotent yourself, to take on the burden of judging what I do here for these girls?”

Quilleran tried his hardest to stifle a laugh. “Mother Alice, you still have not answered my question. You wanted me to be specific, so I will be: If there were someone out there that you could pin the blame on--burden with the weight of responsibility for the tragedy of what happened to Sally, who would you blame?”

Mother Alice paused for a good long time before speaking. “The answer that you’re looking for, Mr. Quilleran, is very painful, and the fallout would affect the lives of many very important people. So, regretfully, I can not answer your question.”

He looked at her thoughtfully. “Can not or will not?” He knew that his question would not be answered and that he had gotten as far as he was able to with her. Also, he could feel that on some level, he had touched a nerve with her, gone too far. “Forgive my brash manner. It’s just the reporter in me. I think that I have enough for my story at this point in time.” He took out a card from his pocket and handed it to her. “If you think of anything else that you want to talk to me about, just call me. I check my messages every evening and I’ll get back to you within 24 hours. Have a nice day.”

He nodded courteously to her as he rose and left. She watched him leave with a wary look in her pale, grey eyes, which had become as hard and bright as stainless steel.

After Quilleran had left the Mother Superior’s office, Sister Annika returned, gathered up a handful of brochures about Saint Ann’s, along with some admission forms, and stuffed them into a big folder. “I have to update the waiting list,” she told Mother Alice. “Three more families have contacted us about enrolling their daughters.”

“Yes, I believe we can admit another three girls within the next thirty days,” Mother Alice agreed. “Be sure to update the adoption waiting list as well. And make sure that Mr. and Mrs. Nieves are moved to the bottom.” When she mentioned the Puerto Rican couple, her voice was frosty enough to chill Jell-O.

Sister Annika nodded. “Yes, any couple who would turn down a perfectly healthy baby because of her color doesn’t deserve to be at the top of the list.”

“No, they don’t. The nerve of some people! Telling us they can’t adopt Mercedes’ baby girl because she’s too black! This from a couple who are not that white themselves. Especially that Hector Nieves,” Mother Alice sniffed. “His skin is as brown as a paper bag. I’ll bet he could pass for that baby’s natural father if he had a suntan.”

“Only in the summertime,” Sister Annika said wryly. “He wants to be able to pass as the natural father all year round.”

“So he’s a man for all seasons,” Mother Alice said scornfully. “Unfortunately for him, this is not the season for him to be a father. Maybe going childless for another year will help him and Monica to see the error of their ways.”

“I certainly hope so,” Sister Annika remarked as she headed for the door. After she left, Mother Alice went to her desk, sat down and began poring over her ledger, letting out a melancholy sigh at the note she’d written in the debit column which read, _“Nieves couple refused child. No donation.”_

“This is so awkward,” she said to herself. “I was counting on that donation to finish the windows in the west wing.” Newer and stronger barred gates in the windows had become a necessity; today’s generation of unwed mothers was not as docile or obedient as the ones they first admitted back in 1952. Lorena’s attempt to escape hadn’t been the first one this year. Mother Alice doubted whether she would have been able to get past Mike Smalls at the gate, but she could have had someone waiting for her outside to create a diversion, long enough to distract poor Mike, who was very soft-hearted where the girls were concerned. Perhaps it was time to replace the gate keeper with someone less likely to be distracted by outside agents, or by a girl’s tears if she was caught.

So she wrote a note to herself on a pink Post-It pad by the green bud vase on her desk holding a single pink orchid. _“Call Armor Security for new gate keeper. Give Mike Smalls two weeks’ notice and severance pay.”_ She wondered whether to offer the position to one of the Durossi sisters, then decided she was better off keeping them as her own private internal security team. They were very good at capturing escapees, as well as handling the more violent students who tried to fight their way out, or who took out their anger on the staff and their fellow students once they realized they were stuck here until their babies were born.

“You’d think the little ingrates would be more grateful,” she muttered, remembering a girl she knew in high school whose parents had disowned her after she eloped with her baby’s father. She’d come back a year later, divorced and with a baby in her arms, begging her parents for help. They’d grudgingly allowed her to move back into her old room in the projects where they lived. Her mother had taken care of the baby while she was out looking for a job. When she found one, at a factory assembly line, she had to pay them rent out of her meager check. Her baby boy had outgrown the cute stage and spent most of his time crying, eating, or throwing things, which had not endeared him to his grandparents. The young mother finally had enough of the drudgery and ran away again, leaving her baby with her parents. They promptly turned him over to Children’s Services. Alice could still remember how he cried as the social worker carried him away.

“Why didn’t she give him up when he was born?” she wondered aloud. “She didn’t have to marry that lout. All he did was beat her and cheat on her.” Funny how the boy you were willing to give up everything for when you eloped with him became the man you couldn’t stand a year later. Her mouth tightened as she remembered her own high school beau, the one who promised to love her forever, then couldn’t be found when she needed him most. She’d had to take care of the problem herself...

Mother Alice shook her head rapidly from side to side to shake those memories out of it. She took a deep breath and let it out slowly, then another, and another, until her serenity was restored. “No sense in dwelling on the past,” she said to herself softly. “Nor in digging it up after it’s been decently laid to rest.” That reporter didn’t seem like a muckraker, but the text she’d gotten from Father McKenzie had warned her to create a headstone for the Marcus baby, after the parish priest in Scarsdale had sent him a photo of Quilleran leaving Deborah Marcus’ house. So she had done it, putting the boy’s name over the girl’s name with the latex band from the novelty shop, while silently praying for God’s forgiveness. Surely He would understand that her true intention was to protect the now grown man who used to be David Marcus.

So she settled down in the comfy ergonomic swivel chair behind her desk, all aglow with the warmth of self-righteousness. Had she taken a moment to examine the files her assistant had been going through, she would have found that Carol Marcus’ file was missing. It had left her office along with the nun, hidden in the big Redwell folder she was carrying the rest of her paperwork in. Had she known that Annika was rapidly changing clothes in the bathroom outside her office, hoping to catch the reporter before he left the grounds of Saint Ann’s, she wouldn’t have been so sure of herself or her ability to keep the dirty little secret of her baby selling business—or private adoption, as she preferred to call it—a secret for very much longer


	10. Chapter 10

“THE BAD SHEPHERD”

 Part 10 of 14

RHINELAND, NEW YORK

FRIDAY, MARCH 30th, 1:00 p.m., 2012

_“Give just a little bit more_

_Take a little bit less_

_From each other tonight_

_Admit what you're feeling_

_And see what's in front of you,_

_It's never out of your sight._

_You know it's true,_

_We all know that it's true.”_

“Never Comes The Day”, The Moody Blues, 1969

 

When Quilleran got to the front gate of Saint Ann’s, he saw the portly security guard on the phone inside his booth. Moments later, Smalls hung up and looked out of the window at the reporter. “Are you Mr. Quilleran?”

“Yes, I am. I was here earlier with the Mother Superior,” Quilleran reminded him.

“Yeah, well, I just got a call from her assistant, Sister Annika. She wants me to tell you not to leave yet. She says she forgot to give you something important that you need to write your article.”

“Oh, all right. I’ll just wait here then.” So he stood by the gate keeper’s booth with his hands in his coat pockets, watching the budding trees lining the garden path blowing in the breeze. He wondered what Sister Annika had to give him that was so important. Perhaps she had more inside info about the home? Something she dared not discuss in front of Mother Alice? 

Just as he was starting to get restless, he saw a tall, blonde woman in a gray skirted suit and a black coat walking down the path toward the gate. He thought she was one of the lay teachers, until she got close enough for him to recognize her as Sister Annika in lay clothing. Her hair was pinned up at the nape of her neck, her makeup was merely face powder and pink lipstick, her wide, blue eyes were free of mascara and regarded him gravely, with a hint of worry. The fine wrinkles at the corners of her eyes belied her youthful appearance, as did the thin gray lines in her sleek, blonde hair.

“Hello, Sister. I almost didn’t recognize you,” he told her.

“Hello, Mr. Quilleran.” She smiled, but she still looked worried. After looking from left to right to make sure no one else was about, she hitched up the big, black tote bag she was carrying on her left shoulder, then said to him, “Would you mind accompanying me to the local coffee shop in town? I need to discuss something with you in private.”

“Really?” Quilleran wasn’t too surprised; he figured that she might have more to say to him after that little mime show in Mother Alice’s office. “Does this have something to do with what we were discussing in Mother Superior’s office?” he asked cautiously, for the benefit of Mike Smalls’ ears. He didn’t know just how loyal an employee the big man was.

“Yes, I just wanted to clear up a few details. We wouldn’t want you to print anything inaccurate about Saint Ann’s. That would be a great disservice to the girls, past and present.”

He instantly became alert. “Of course, Sister. Where shall we go?”

“To the Coffee Café. It’s a little place in town where the girls and the staff like to go. No one will bother us there.” Mike Smalls buzzed them out when she held up her ID card on the lanyard around her neck. Quilleran followed her outside and down the sidewalk on the left side of a busy two-way street. They passed his car along the way, but she kept on going, her low-heeled pumps clicking on the sidewalk as she walked briskly toward a block of business establishments, mostly stores and restaurants.

Within fifteen minutes they came to The Coffee Café, a small restaurant with a red brick façade and white shutters on the windows. Soon they were sitting at a booth in the back, with a miniature jukebox mounted on the wall above the napkin holder. The CD’s it held inside looked just like the old 45’s jukeboxes used to play. After studying the list of songs, she put two quarters into it and punched a couple of numbers. “Now we should be able to speak freely, without being overheard.”

He raised his eyebrows as The Moody Blues began singing one of their melancholy songs. _“Why do we never get an answer, when we’re knocking at the door, with a thousand million questions, about hate and death and war?”_   Sister Annika smiled at him across the clean red Formica tabletop, divided by a slim white vase with plastic red roses, salt and pepper shakers, a bottle of ketchup and a rack filled with three different sweeteners, white sugar packets, blue and pink diet sweetener packets. “I’m sure you have a lot of questions, so I thought this was appropriate.”

“Yes, I do have a lot of questions,” he admitted, falling silent as a waitress, in a sleeveless red uniform dress worn over a yellow blouse, came to their booth with her order pad. She asked what they would like. Both ordered coffee. Annika asked her to leave the pot on the table. The waitress, who had short, red hair and wore a gold cuff on her right ear, looked at her knowingly, nodded and left.

Resting the big, black tote bag on the seat beside her, Sister Annika put her folded hands on the table and regarded him gravely with her serious blue eyes. “I wasn’t there when Saint Ann’s opened, but I learned its history after I came there as a novice in 1966. Along with a pregnant girl named Carol Marcus.”

He leaned toward her, keeping his voice low enough to discourage evesdroppers, but loud enough to be heard over the music. “What can you tell me about Carol Marcus?”

“She was young and sad, mourning for her baby’s father, who was killed fighting in Vietnam with the Navy. Her father was a Navy admiral, anxious to avoid a scandal. Her mother agreed with everything he said; she was his faithful echo. Most military wives were, back then. When we showed Carol to her room, her father was giving orders to Reverend Mother not to let her write or call anybody except her parents. I didn’t understand why, since the baby’s father was dead. I thought perhaps he was afraid one of Carol’s friends would reveal her secret, telling another girl in strictest confidence what really happened to their friend Carol when she left town.”

“Yes, teenage girls do tend to gossip, even after promising to keep a secret,” he agreed. “Did he also tell you to watch the mail and confiscate any letter that wasn’t from him or Carol’s mother?”

“Yes, he did.” She gave him a look of approval for his shrewdness. “Most of the parents of our girls give us similar orders, to prevent their daughters from conspiring with someone outside, usually the baby’s father, to help them escape.”

“I thought so!” he said triumphantly. “When I spoke to Carol’s mother before I came here, she told me that Carol told her that some of the girls used to sneak out letters to their boyfriends. But none of the boyfriends ever wrote back.”

“Some of them did,” Sister Annika admitted. “But their letters were confiscated and destroyed.” She looked ashamed. “You have to understand, I was young myself, not much older than those pregnant girls. And I took my vow of obedience seriously, even though I had my doubts about censoring the girls’ mail that way. So when Mother Alice told me to burn any letters that weren’t from a girl’s parents, I obeyed her without question. Until—” She fell silent as the waitress returned, with a tray bearing a glass coffee carafe and two red mugs. After depositing the tray’s contents on the tabletop, along with a milk pitcher, she asked if they wanted anything else. Sister Annika told her no, thank you, then mentioned that someone would be joining them later. After the waitress left, Quilleran asked her who would be joining them. “You’ll see,” was all she said. She poured them each a cup of the fragrant brew, added milk and three sugars to hers, then sat back with the red mug in her hands, taking an occasional sip as she spoke.

“As I said, I obeyed the Reverend Mother’s orders regarding the letters, until the day I overheard one of the girls telling her roommate she hadn’t heard from her fiancé since he left for Vietnam with the Army, and she was worried. Her roommate said, ‘If you’re engaged to your baby’s father, what are you doing here?’ The girl, her name was Barbara, said that her parents didn’t approve of Herman, her fiancé, because he was Protestant. He was also three years older than her and had enlisted in the Army right out of high school. He had given her an engagement ring during her senior year and promised her that they would be married when he got back from Vietnam. But after he left, she found out that she was pregnant.

“When she told her parents, they were furious. They wouldn’t believe she was engaged to Herman, even when she showed them the ring. Her father said he had no right to give it to her, that it was only a trick to get into her—to take advantage of her,” Annika said, substituting a more modest term for the crude remark Barbara’s father had made. “Her father wanted her to write to Herman and send the ring back to him, tell him that she changed her mind and didn’t want to marry him. He also wanted her to have an abortion. It wasn’t legal then, but he had a doctor friend who performed them after office hours, for a price. When she refused to do either of these things, she wound up in Saint Ann’s Home. She managed to leave a letter for Herman with her best friend, begging her to mail it secretly. But that had been over two months ago and she still hadn’t heard from Herman or her friend.”

“So what did you do?” he asked over his rapidly cooling coffee.

“Barbara was in tears and I felt sorry for her. So when a letter arrived for her that wasn’t in either of her parents’ handwriting, I held it back from Mother Alice. I waited until Barbara was alone, then I approached her and gave her the letter. I told her ‘This is for you. If you want to send a reply, give it to me to mail for you.’

“How did she respond?”

Annika smiled. “When she saw her fiancé’s handwriting, she was so happy she cried. She couldn’t stop thanking me. I told her to be careful not to let anyone else see the letter, not even her roommate. I also told her to write to Herman and tell him to send his letters to her friend’s address, and write to her friend to ask her to forward Herman’s letters to her, in an envelope with her girlfriend’s handwriting on it. I mailed both these letters for her on one of my errands in town.”

“That was good of you, Sister,” he told her, touched by her kindness to the young mother-to-be. “So what became of Barbara and her baby, after her fiancé found out where she was?”

“About six letters and three months later, when she was in her seventh month, she and a group of other girls were allowed to go into town to see a movie. It was Memorial Day weekend and the news was filled with reports of soldiers and sailors coming home on leave for the holiday. Barbara’s fiancé was able to get leave for that weekend. At my suggestion, he was waiting for her at the town’s only movie theater, where they were showing _A Man for All Seasons._ Ten girls went to the Saturday afternoon matinee at three, accompanied by me and three other nuns. When the movie finished, we went out into the lobby to get on line for the restroom. I made sure Barbara was at the head of the line so that she could slip away, on the pretext of waiting for the rest of us at the refreshment stand. When we were all finished, we assembled in the lobby by the refreshment stand and I counted heads. There were ten girls and four nuns in our group. But when we left the theater, there were only nine girls. I swore to Mother Alice that I had seen and counted ten girls. I didn’t tell her that I had seen one girl embracing a young soldier behind a pillar, and that they had slipped away together through a side exit while the rest of us left through the front doors.”

Quilleran laughed with delight. “I love happy endings! Did you ever hear from her again?”

“Yes, a year later I received a letter from an Army base somewhere in New Jersey. It had a photo of Barbara and her husband celebrating their son’s first birthday. The little fellow had chocolate icing all over his face and was nibbling on a big ‘1’ candle. There was also a thank you card for me signed by both parents.” She smiled as she poured herself another cup of coffee.

He tasted his and grimaced when he found it had gone cold. He set it aside and asked, “Was she the only girl you helped?”

“She was the first girl I helped, and she wasn’t the last,” Sister Annika admitted cautiously. “That’s all that I can tell you.”

“All right, what can you tell me about Carol Marcus?”

She made him wait until she had put more money into the juke box, this time selecting “Lies” by The Knickerbockers, a 60’s pop group from New Jersey that sounded similar to The Beatles. _“Lies, lies, I can’t believe a word you say, Lies, Lies, are gonna make you sad someday...”_ they sang as she told him her story. “Carol Marcus had been with us since September, at the beginning of the school year. I remember she had just turned seventeen on the first of February, when her father came to visit her, alone. He had a newspaper in one hand and a grim look on his face. When he asked to see Carol alone, I showed him to one of the visitors’ rooms and then I found Carol between classes and escorted her there. I was tempted to listen at the door, but one of the sisters called me to come help her with a girl who had fainted, so I had to help her escort the girl to the infirmary.

“Later, after Admiral Marcus had left, I found out that Carol had never showed up for her second period class before lunch. I looked for her before alerting Mother Alice, because I didn’t want the whole house upset by our usual floor-by-floor search for a missing girl. I kept praying she was still in the house or on the grounds, otherwise she would have been punished more severely. Girls who make it outside the gate are always tracked down, dragged back and locked up in the Quiet Room, where they can vent their anger on the padded walls and floor and scream as loud as they like, without anyone hearing them from outside. The girls who fight back when they are found, hitting and kicking the nuns who find them, are beaten as well. On their backs, with whips called disciplines, commonly used in the Catholic Church for self-flagellation; they have lashes with knotted cords that leave redness, but no scars. Sometimes they are beaten even if they are just loud and obscene, not violent. Afterwards, they are left to lie overnight on the padded floor and think about their sins. Very few of our girls ever try to escape again after a session in the Quiet Room.”

“Was Carol one of them?” he asked, feeling sick at the thought of a pregnant teenager being beaten, even with a whip that left no scars.

“No, thankfully I found her in her room. Her roommate was still in class. She was lying on her bed crying, with the newspaper her father had brought.” Annika paused to feed the jukebox again, selecting “Lies” once more. “I asked her what was wrong, and she showed me an article in the paper about a Navy squadron that was taken captive by the Vietnamese, after suffering heavy casualties, on January 19th, 1967. Her father had gotten hold of a casualty list. Her boyfriend’s name was on it.”

“Did you see the list?”

“Yes, she showed me that too. A single sheet of paper with a U.S. Navy letterhead on it, listing the names of all personnel who took part in that battle on January 19th.  Jim Kirk’s squad, and his name was listed on that paper, along with all the others whose names began with ‘K’, followed by ‘missing in action, believed dead’. His name was the only one followed by the single word ‘dead’.”

Quilleran frowned thoughtfully. Something didn’t sound right. “How many names on that list began with ‘K’?”

“Not many, about a dozen.”

“Was the paper you saw an original copy?”

“No, I believe it was a photocopy.”

“A photocopy?” He sat up straighter and leaned forward, staring at her earnestly. “Tell me, did you notice anything ‘off’ about that copy? Was the area after Jim Kirk’s name lighter? Did the font look different?”

“What do you mean?” She gave him a puzzled look.

“I mean that if the admiral wanted his daughter to believe her boyfriend was dead, it would have been easy for him to use White Out on the original copy of the casualty list to cover up the short sentence ‘missing in action, believed dead’. Then he could have just typed in the word ‘dead’ and made a photocopy of that page for his daughter to see.”

Sister Annika stared at him with growing horror as the memory of that day became clearer. “Now that I think of it,” she said slowly, “I remember how the word ‘dead’ after Kirk’s name seemed to stand out more than the words ‘missing in action, believed dead’ after the names of the men above and below him. It looked darker, as if it were freshly printed. And it was spaced a little further away from Kirk’s name too.”

“That’s bound to happen when you insert a typed sheet of paper into a typewriter and try to write something over whatever you whited out,” Quilleran said grimly. “I’ll bet Admiral Marcus borrowed his secretary’s White Out and typewriter after she left for the day, and then made a copy of the result on the office copier. Sure, Xerox copiers were around in those days, weren’t they?”

She nodded, looking stunned. “Yes, even a man who’s used to having his letters typed for him would be able to make a simple alteration to a document like the one you described. But if that’s what he did—”

“—then he lied to his daughter,” Quilleran finished the sentence for her. “He faked that page of the casualty list to convince his daughter that her lover was never coming back.”

“But why?” she whispered over the sudden silence as the music ended. “Did he really hate Jim Kirk that much?”

Quilleran fished in his coat pocket for change, found two quarters and fed the jukebox, then punched in his own selection: a Bob Dylan song called “Absolutely Sweet Marie” in which Dylan sings _“To live outside the law, you must be honest”._   He then told Sister Annika, “Yes, and he also wanted to make sure that his daughter wouldn’t keep the baby. He would have done anything to make sure that her pregnancy remained a dirty little secret, to protect his reputation as well as her own.”

“How can you prove this happened?”

“I know he must have done it, because I’ve met Jim Kirk. He’s not dead." 

“What?” Sister Annika gasped, her blue eyes very wide with shock.

“Sssh!” He looked around furtively, caught the red-haired waitress’ eye and held up his mug, mouthing at her silently to bring another one. She went to do so, during which he leaned closer to the nun and whispered, “Yes, Jim Kirk is still alive and married to Carol Marcus. I spoke to them both only a few days ago. They each believed the other was dead, thanks to Carol’s father, as well as a certain priest who was working with a certain cardinal that the admiral was friendly with.”

“Cardinal Spellman? He was in on this too?” she whispered, looking like she was about to faint. Quilleran didn’t blame her; it wasn’t easy for a dedicated daughter of the church to believe that one of its' most highly placed clergymen was guilty of deception.

Just then, the waitress returned. She brought two mugs, not one, put one down in front of Quilleran and removed the cold one, then told Sister Annika, “That person you were expecting has arrived. Shall I tell him to wait until you’ve finished talking to this gentleman?”

It took a few moments for the nun to collect herself. “No, Kira, send him right over. These two gentlemen definitely have to meet.” The waitress nodded and walked away.

“It sounds as if you’ve done similar business in this café before,” Quilleran commented.

She nodded. “Yes, but I’ve never gotten such a shock as the one you just gave me. Not since I learned how Father McKenzie tricked Carol Marcus into giving up her baby.”

“By faking his death?”

“Yes. So you knew about that too?”

“I guessed. Now I need you to give me the details.”

“I will, after you meet this young man.” As she spoke, a young man in a UPS uniform came toward their table. Quilleran recognized him as the one who had been at the gate of Saint Ann’s Home earlier. He was Latino, with a medium dark complexion, handsome and tall, with short, black hair whose natural curl had been subdued by styling gel, as well as a short-bearded chin and mustache that reminded Quilleran of Will Riker, a friend of his and John-Luc’s back in New York. When he got to the table Sister Annika greeted him cordially. “Hello, Alfredo. Sit down and have some coffee.” She turned to the reporter. “Mr. Quilleran, I want you to meet Alfredo Mejias. He’s the father of Lorena Perez’s baby.”                      

Quilleran stared at him in astonishment before saying, “So you _were_ expecting a big package at the gate!”  

The younger man nodded, looking unhappy as he took his seat at the little table. “Lorena was supposed to be waiting for me outside when I arrived. That’s why I was arguing with the gate keeper. I thought she was just late and I was stalling him until she arrived.”

“She told Mother Alice that you were waiting for her at the bus depot.”

“That’s what she was supposed to say if she got caught. How did you know that?”

“I overheard it when I pressed my ear to the door of Mother’s office,” he confessed. He told Alfredo and Annika everything he had heard through the door.

Alfredo cursed in Spanish, then apologized to the nun. “ _Perdona me, Hermana._ It took me a month to get assigned to this route, once I found out where Lorena’s father had sent her. If you hadn’t smuggled her first letter out to me, I would still be thinking she was in Puerto Rico with her aunt.”

“We’ll just have to find another opportunity for you to pick up or deliver packages at Saint Ann’s,” she told him. “It’ll have to be soon. Lorena’s baby is due on May 26th. If you still intend to marry her before it’s born-”

“Of course I do!”

“Then you’ll have to get her out of there by her eighteenth birthday, which is on May 20th. Once you’re married to her, and the baby is born with your name, her father will have no power over her. Or her inheritance, which goes to her regardless of whether she is married or not.”

“But Mother Alice said she was going to keep Lorena there until after her baby was born, even if she turned eighteen in the meantime,” Quilleran reminded her.

“Keep her prisoner until her father came for her, you mean,” Alfredo said angrily. “That old man thinks he knows what’s best for everybody. Even if they don’t agree with him. He doesn’t want me to marry Lorena because he thinks she can do better at college, where she’ll meet ‘educated men from good families’,” he quoted sarcastically. “He means rich, white guys from more socially prominent families, not some poor _Cubano_ from a blue-collar family. My family has always worked; we’re not Welfare refugees who went on public assistance the minute we set foot on American soil. And I was born here, so I don’t need an American wife to keep me from being deported.”

“Is Lorena an American citizen too?” Quilleran asked him.

“Yes, her father is Dominican, but her mother was Puerto Rican. They met in P.R. and Lorena was born in Santurce a year after they were married. And don’t try to tell me that doesn’t make her American, because Puerto Rico is a commonwealth under the protection of the United States. That makes it American territory.” Alfredo stared at him defiantly. Quilleran got the impression that he’d had this argument before with white people. He wasn’t offended; not all whites were as savvy about geography as they thought they were.

“Yes, I know that Puerto Rico is part of the United States,” he assured the younger man. “Just like Hawaii, though you wouldn’t know it from the number of people who keep demanding to see President Obama’s birth certificate.” He and Alfredo laughed; both knew that it was Obama’s race that made people question his American citizenship, not the state where he was born, which many white Americans still thought was a foreign country.

“Gentlemen, can we please get back to the subject?” Sister Annika asked patiently. “Namely, how to get Lorena out of Saint Ann’s Home and married to her baby’s father?”

“Sister, I think you should arrange for Lorena to help you in the office as a disciplinary measure,” Quilleran suggested. “That way, when the UPS truck arrives, she can accompany you to the front gate to help you carry the packages.”

She shook her head. “No, she won’t be allowed to leave the house for a month after her escape attempt.”

“Then let the UPS driver come to the house to pick up the packages. Let people see him enter the office alone, then leave it accompanied by you and one of the nuns. All of you should be carrying a package. The other nun should be carrying one big enough to hide her face.”

Sister Annika thought it over and began to smile. “Yes, I think I can arrange that. One of Sister Kessandra’s habits should be small enough to fit Lorena.”

“If you can trust Sister Kessandra, ask her to meet you out by the gate and accompany you back inside, so people will see two nuns leave and two nuns return,” Quilleran suggested further.

“What about the gate keeper?” Alfredo asked. “If he’s loyal to the Mother Superior, he’s sure to tell her the nun who came back with Sister Annika wasn’t the same nun who left the house with her.”

“I think Mike Smalls can be persuaded to turn a blind eye,” Annika told him. “If not, or he isn’t on duty that day, I’ll have to use a little financial persuasion to convince him or whoever is on duty to forget what he saw.”    

“Can you afford it, Sister?” Alfredo asked, with great concern. “I can give you a little something to help you grease the gate keeper’s palm.”

“Don’t worry, I have a slush fund for such emergencies. Mother insists upon giving me a percentage of whatever gifts we receive from grateful adoptive parents.”

“To keep your mouth shut, no doubt,” Quilleran remarked.

Sister Annika turned red and bowed her head in shame. “Yes,” she murmured, “ever since I found out about her baby-selling racket. Which was after I found out how Carol Marcus was tricked into giving up her baby.”

Quilleran leaned forward eagerly. “That’s what I came here to find out. Tell me what happened that day, Sister.”

“As soon as we feed the jukebox again,” she said as she rummaged through her coin purse. “Just to make sure this conversation stays between the three of us.”

Both Quilleran and Alfredo dug through their pockets and came up with enough change to feed the jukebox six more times. Alfredo also ordered a grilled cheese sandwich and fries for lunch, to justify their sitting at the table for so long. Quilleran thought that was a good idea and ordered the same thing. Sister Annika just ordered the soup of the day, tomato rice. Once they were settled in with their food, Annika continued the low-voiced conversation, concealed by the sound of Sargent Pepper’s Lonely Hearts Club Band.

“Carol went into labor on the morning of March 13th, 1967. So did Joan Maxwell, a couple of hours before she did. Joan’s labor didn’t last long. Her baby was stillborn, poor thing, a little blonde girl with her Irish father’s sturdy build. No sooner had we laid the poor little body to rest in a covered bassinet in a corner of the infirmary, when Carol went into labor. I remember the sun was just coming up when she did; Joan went into labor while it was still dark.” She ate some soup and continued.

“We had just finished cleaning up from Joan’s delivery. As we wheeled Carol in, she was clinging to my hand, sobbing between the breaths she was taking as Sister Kessandra couched her through them. Lamaze breathing was the latest thing for childbirth back then. Doctor Felix was wide awake and sober. Of course, it was still early in the day. Many’s the time I smelled liquor on his breath after lunch. Not very often, but enough to make me and Kes extra vigilant during a birth. We make sure he didn’t use the forceps to deliver a baby after he’d been drinking. It would have been too easy for him to cause brain damage by sinking those forceps too deep into a fragile baby’s skull. And if a Caesarian section was necessary, Kes would make the incision, since she was a qualified nurse and had more surgical experience. But I can assure you that the doctor’s hands were quite steady that day, as he coaxed Carol to breathe in and breathe out, while he guided the baby into position and eased him out carefully.

“It was a boy, born alive, who cried on his own after we cleared the blood and mucus from his face. Doctor Felix told Carol it was a boy, but she was already unconscious. He said she must have inhaled too much of the gas, and told me and Kes to clean her up and take her to the lying-in room, while he took care of the little fellow. I should have known that he was up to something; all the other births I had assisted in, the baby was laid on the mother’s breast to nurse, and kept beside her in a little rolling bassinet while she recovered.

“I helped Kes clean Carol and put her in a fresh nightgown. I made sure she was lying comfortably in a bed by the window, then I left to attend to my duties. Later, much later, I came back to the infirmary with the paperwork for both babies, the living and the dead. While I was sitting at the desk filling out the forms for Joan’s baby, who she named Emily, Father McKenzie came in. He looked very nervous. He asked me, ‘Is the Maxwell baby still here?’ I said, ‘Yes, Father, I was just filling out her paperwork.’ I showed him her birth certificate, on which I had already written ‘stillborn’. When a baby is born dead, it’s not standard practice to issue a birth certificate and a death certificate. Just a certificate of birth resulting in stillbirth.

“Then Father McKenzie asked me, ‘Do you mind if I take the poor little mite with me to the mother’s bedside? She wants me to baptize her.’ I was surprised to hear that Joan was awake, since she was still sleeping off the sedation when I looked in on her earlier. But I said, ‘Of course, Father, she’s entitled to see her baby baptized before she’s buried.’ He thanked me and asked me where we kept the receiving blankets to wrap the babies in. I showed him the cupboard where we kept the blankets and baby clothes, he thanked me and went to fetch a blanket while I went back to my paperwork. While I was looking down at the forms on the desk, I saw Father McKenzie from the corner of my eye wrapping baby Emily in a blue blanket. At the time, I thought it was just like a man to wrap a girl baby in a blue blanket. So I kept working on the forms and didn’t find out until much later that he took the dead baby to the wrong mother.” She ate the rest of her soup without tasting it, simply to relieve the pangs of hunger in her stomach. Quilleran stared at his ketchup-soaked fries and his partially eaten sandwich while he absorbed this information. Alfredo looked horrified as he sat there with a French fry on his fork, his grilled cheese already devoured.

When the soup was gone, Annika sat staring into the empty bowl as she spoke softly, while Ringo Starr sang “Good Night” on the jukebox. “After I finished all the paperwork, I went to visit the girls in the lying-in room. Joan was still out, much to my surprise. But Carol was awake and crying. She said to me, ‘Oh, Sister Annie, my baby’s dead.’ I was shocked. I had just seen her baby in the nursery, sleeping peacefully in one of the rolling bassinets with ‘David Marcus’ written on the nameplate at the foot. So I said to her, ‘There must be a mistake, Carol. When I last saw your baby, he was alive.’ She said, ‘No, Father McKenzie told me he died an hour ago. Mother Alice just gave me a paper to sign so he could be buried here in Saint Ann’s cemetery.’ Then I remembered how he had wrapped the dead baby girl in a blue blanket and I put two and two together. So I told her, ‘I’m sure there’s been a mistake. Let me find out what’s going on, Carol. Don’t cry, I’ll find your baby for you.’ So I went straight to the nursery, where I found Kes pushing the little bassinet with baby David in it out into the corridor.

“I ran after her saying, ‘Kes, where are you going with that baby?’ She said, ‘I’m taking him to Mother Alice’s office, to meet his new parents.’ I was so stunned, I just stood there and stared at her while she pushed the baby down the hall toward Mother’s office. When I finally got my wits back, I ran after her again. I remember babbling at her that this was all a terrible mistake, that Carol thought her baby was dead, that Father McKenzie and Mother Alice had pulled a fast one. She just looked at me with a face like a martyr and said, ‘Carol’s already surrendered her parental rights. I’ve seen the document with her signature on it. She’s seventeen, so by state law she doesn’t need her parents’ permission. Mother says if she thinks the child is dead, that only makes it easier for her.’

“I was so shocked, I almost shouted at her. ‘What do you mean Mother says so?’ Kes just glared at me—gentle, loving Kes, who always had a kind word for the young mothers-to-be and the young novice assisting her—and told me to shut up. She said that if Mother heard me, I would be locked in the Quiet Room until the visitors left. She warned me not to say another word, or to question Mother Superior or Father McKenzie until after the adoption was finalized. ‘I’m telling you this for your own good, Annie,’ she said as we drew near Mother’s office door. ‘The people waiting in there to adopt this baby are personal friends of Cardinal Spellman. They’re going to make a very generous thank offering to Saint Ann’s for giving them a son. If you jeopardize that, Mother will whip you herself with a discipline made of tanned leather. So keep quiet and learn how we do things here at Saint Ann’s Maternity Home.’ Her voice was so bitter, her eyes so sad, I almost cried. But then the office door opened and Mother Alice stood there smiling. She said, ‘Come in, Sisters, and show the Scotts their new son.’

By this time, all the food on the men’s plates was gone, and both were wishing they could wash it down with something stronger than coffee. The jukebox was playing “Tainted Love” as Sister Annika went on to describe the nightmarish scene in Mother Alice’s office: Chief Montgomery Scott, a decorated firefighter, and his young wife, Janice, gazing adoringly at the little boy in his bassinet while Father McKenzie told them a cock-and-bull story about the brave young woman who had died giving birth to him, after her fiancé had been killed in Vietnam before they could be married. Mother Alice's smiling assurances that the young mother had been grateful to know that her child was going to a good home, and had lived long enough to kiss her son and name him David before she passed on peacefully, Doctor Felix’s medications insuring that she died without pain. The new father had a prominent Scottish accent as he thanked Mother Alice for helping him and his missis get the “wee bairn” they had wanted for so long. It seemed Mrs. Scott was unable to have children of her own, despite her youth. She was a slender blonde with a bouffant hairstyle, wearing a red dress suit similar to first lady Patricia Nixon’s. She cooed over little David as he lay sleeping in his bassinet, while her husband, who was in his dress uniform, made out a check to Saint Ann’s home. Meanwhile, the young novice nun and the nursing nun stood by silently, watching a baby being sold like a doll in a toy store, while his mother mourned him for dead.

Sister Annika fell silent, staring at the bottom of her empty soup bowl as if looking for answers there, a single tear falling from the corner of her right eye. Quilleran shook his head, while Alfredo looked stunned. The younger man finally broke the silence. “How could they do such a thing? A priest and a nun, selling a baby like that! Lying to his mother, telling her he died, then lying to the new parents, telling them she died. How can such a thing be legal?”

“Because Carol didn’t really sign a burial form, did she?” Quilleran asked Annika, having already figured it out.

“No,” she said softly and sadly. “Mother gave her a burial form on a clipboard to sign. It was a short document on top of a longer document, which was a termination of parental rights. Carol was seventeen, so by New York State law she didn’t need her parents’ approval. She signed away her parental rights, thinking she was signing for a burial plot for her dead baby. A cruel trick, to make sure that she didn’t embarrass her father the admiral by bringing home a bastard.”

“And to make sure that Saint Ann’s Home would profit from the adoption,” Quilleran said grimly, his hands clenched into fists as they lay in his lap. “I’m sure they’ve planned a similar fate for your baby and Lorena’s, Alfredo.”

“No!” He looked shocked at the suggestion.

“Yes, they have,” the nun told him, another tear falling from her eye. “Provided the baby is white enough.”

“What do you mean, white enough?”

“The last adoption fell through because the intended parents thought the baby was too black,” Annika told him. “You’re a light-skinned _Cubano_ , and Lorena is dark, so the baby has a fifty-fifty chance of being able to pass muster.”

“If the next set of intended parents is as discriminating as the last one,” Quilleran said wryly, knowing he had just made a pun and not caring.

“No!” Alfredo repeated, more forcefully this time. “Nobody’s selling my baby! Even if it comes out looking whiter than white!”

“Then you and Sister Annie here had better make sure your next pickup at the home is assisted by one of the nuns. Preferably the one whose habit fits Lorena.” Quilleran turned to Annika. “How soon can you schedule another pickup by UPS?”

She dabbed at her eyes with a napkin before replying. “Monday, at 10:00 a.m. Lorena will be between classes. I’ll have her assigned to office duty as a punishment, since she usually takes a nap at that time. I’ll also have a short, blonde wig she can wear beneath the veil when she helps me carry the boxes out to the gate. I’ll make sure that Kes goes out there first, so no one will be surprised to see her coming back with me. I’ll have her take something to the  conservatory, then ask her to wait for me by the front gate, out of Mike’s sight. We’ll have to make a bit of a commotion, to distract him while Kes takes Lorena’s place. I think I’ll have to have an argument with you, Alfredo, about one of the packages.”

“Okay, Sister, you and me will get into an argument about the rate for one of the packages while Lorena hides in the back of my truck. Then Sister Kes should come up to us and break up the argument, so Mike can see her leaving with you afterwards.”

She nodded, then turned to Quilleran. “I have something for you that will help you prove that Carol’s baby was stolen from her.” She reached into her big black tote bag and pulled out a file. Handing it to him across the table, she told him, “This is Carol Marcus’ file. You’ll have to read it here and photograph it with your phone, so I can replace it before it’s missed.”

“Thank you, Sister. I’ll be quick.” He opened it and read it rapidly, which he had been able to do since he was old enough to read. There were many notations made in Mother Alice’s handwriting, having to do with calls from Carol’s father or Cardinal Spellman regarding the baby’s adoption. One particularly damning statement was a quote from the cardinal himself, after one of his phone calls, advising Mother Alice to do everything within her power to make sure that Miss Marcus’ baby was adopted as soon as possible after it was born, to avoid bringing shame and disgrace upon herself and her father, the cardinal’s “good friend” Admiral Marcus, who was such a dedicated son of the church as well as a decorated veteran. He photographed that section very carefully, along with another notation about Father McKenzie, the cardinal’s representative, whom he was sending to say Sunday masses at the home to assist the regular priest. “Hold on,” said Quilleran, pausing with his cell phone in one hand as he reread this notation. “Who is this other priest Mother Alice mentions here?”

“Oh, that would be Father Liam Keller. He’s retired now, but he used to come to Saint Ann’s on Fridays to hear confessions and on Saturdays and Sundays to say mass. Then his duties at the church in town became too much, so they started sending us priests from other parishes every other weekend. Then the cardinal sent us one of his own aides to serve at the Sunday masses. That’s how Father McKenzie was able to be on the scene so quickly when Carol went into labor; he was staying at the rectory of the local church while he was assigned to Saint Ann’s.” 

“Does Father Keller still live in town?”

“Yes, near the church of Our Lady Gate of Heaven, where he used to be the pastor. His house is the small, red brick one with the green door, within walking distance of the church.” She gave him the exact address. 

After copying it down in his notebook, he gave her the file back. “You’d better get this back to the office, Sister. I’m going to visit Father Liam. Can I give you a lift, Alfredo?”

“No, thanks. My truck’s parked a couple blocks from here. I better be going.” He put down enough money to pay for his lunch, along with a tip for the waitress, and then left saying, _“Adios, Hermana, Senor.”_

_“Dios de bendiga, Alfredo,”_ she told him. Quilleran simply said goodbye. As soon as the young man was gone, she reached into her big tote bag for her wallet.

But he was ahead of her. “Lunch is on me, Sister,” he said as he threw a fifty dollar bill on the table. “You’d better get back to the home, before Mother misses you.”

“Thank you, Mr. Quilleran. When you see Father Liam, tell him I said it was all right for him to reveal the content of my confessions to you, especially anything about Carol Marcus.”

“Thank you, Sister.” He was very grateful and touched by her trust in him. If she had told Father Liam something pertaining to Carol Marcus’ case in any of her confessions, then the priest wouldn’t be able to tell Quilleran without breaking the seal of the confessional, unless he had her permission to do so. He left the Coffee Café with a determined stride, while she watched him go, praying silently for the sins of the past to come to light.


	11. Chapter 11

THE BAD SHEPHERD

Chapter 11 of 14

RHINELAND, NEW YORK

FRIDAY, MARCH 30th, 4:30 p.m., 2012

_“Words that never were true,_

_Spoken to help nobody but you._

_Words with lies inside,_

_But small enough to hide_

_'Till your playin' was through.”_

“Words” by The Monkees, 1967

By the time he found the little red brick house, he was beginning to wonder if he would find himself outside the city limits. The church of Our Lady Gate of Heaven had been as impressive as its name, with a big pair of double doors in front painted pearly white, with a faint sheen, and a huge stained glass window on either side of the doors depicting scenes from the life of the Blessed Virgin Mary. Resisting the urge to stop and ask for directions, he kept driving in the direction Sister Annika told him to go, until finally he saw a little house in the distance, made of red bricks. When he pulled into the driveway, he saw the door was painted green. It also had a wooden sign on it with golden yellow letters in Gothic script that said “Peace To All Who Enter Here”.

As soon as he had parked his car in the driveway, the green door opened. An old man with short, gray hair wearing a grey sweat suit emerged, holding a yellow cat in his arms. He was followed by a group of children, two boys and one girl, none of whom looked over nine years old; all of them had curly brown hair, rosy cheeks, and sturdy young bodies. The girl wore a short blue denim skirt, a white tee shirt with red roses on it beneath a denim jacket, and white sneakers. One of the boys was tall and thin, with a serious expression, the other was short and chubby, with a cheerful expression. Both boys wore denim shorts with hoodies; the thinner boy’s hoodie was blue, along with his sneakers, the chubby boy’s hoodie was red, as well as his sneakers.

The three children stood on the porch in front of the old man, regarding him gravely. When the girl spoke, Quilleran heard her say, “Are you sure she’s okay, Father?”

“Yes, Rosie, your cat is fine,” the old man assured her, with a smile that made his wrinkled face look younger. His accent was unmistakably British. “The kittens will be born in a month. All you need to do is make sure Elanor is well-fed and has plenty of fresh water. If you see her hiding more often in dark, quiet places like closets or behind furniture or under beds, make sure she has plenty of nesting materials like clean old newspapers, or an old towel or blanket you can fold into a bed. Be careful not to lock her into a closet or inside a drawer, or you’re liable find a terrible mess inside, as well as a litter of kittens.” He bent over and handed the yellow cat back to her young owner.

She took it and hugged it close. Elanor let out a contented mew and snuggled into the little girl’s arms. Rosie turned to the chubby boy and said, “Sam, can you give us a lift home?”

“Sure, Rosie,” the boy said. “Just let me get my bike and wagon.”

“Will they both fit?” asked the other boy.

“Of course they will!” said Sam. “Rosie’s just a little bit of a thing. And Elanor is just a little bit pregnant.”

“Young man, there’s no such thing as being a little bit pregnant,” the old priest told him, “as I’m sure your mother will tell you.”

“She doesn’t have to tell me, Father. I’ve seen her pregnant three times already.”

“You know they’ve discovered a cure for that, right, Sam?” the thinner boy said with a grin.

“Shut up, Fredo!” Sam aimed a punch at his head with one meaty fist, which the other boy neatly sidestepped with a laugh. “Don’t be talking about birth control in front of a priest!”

The priest laughed too. “Don’t worry, Sam, I know what birth control is. Since I’m a retired priest, I no longer have the authority to tell people how to live their lives. However, if your father finds it difficult to feed and care for you and your little brothers, as well as the little one on its way, I do recommend he visit his doctor while your mother is pregnant, and do the same thing I advised Rosie to do for Elanor, once her kittens are weaned.”

“You mean an operation, to keep Mom from getting pregnant again?”

“Yes, Sam, men can get this procedure done much easier than women, and it’s much safer for them. And if his conscience bothers him, tell him to come see me and I’ll hear his confession and give him absolution for interfering with natural reproduction.” 

“Okay, Father, I’ll mention it to him next time Mom is upchucking in the toilet from morning sickness.”  Sam went behind a bush on the right side of the house and fetched a bike with a wagon attached to it. He mounted the bike and said, “Come on, Rosie, all aboard.”

Rosie climbed into the wagon and sat down, holding her cat on her lap. Fredo made as if he was going to join her in the wagon, but Sam yelled at him to get on his own bike. Fredo laughed as he went behind a bush on the left side to get it. He peddled off, waving to the priest, who waved back. Sam followed, peddling more slowly since he had passengers. Rosie waved goodbye to the priest, who waved back before he went inside. Quilleran thought that Sam must have a paper route; the bike and wagon combo looked like it could be used to deliver newspapers. He waited until the children had peddled out of sight before getting out of his car.

He walked up to the green door and knocked. The old priest opened the door and said, “Yes?”

“Good afternoon, are you Father Liam Keller?”

“Yes, may I help you?” he replied, regarding him warily as he held the door open with one hand.

“Father, my name is John Quilleran. I’m a reporter for The Boston Globe.” He showed him his ID from the paper. “I’m doing a feature story on unwed motherhood, then and now. I understand you used to be a chaplain at Saint Ann’s Maternity Home.”

“If it’s information you want, why don’t you go to Saint Ann’s and talk to the Mother Superior?” Father Keller made no move to invite him in, continuing to hold the door open but looking ready to slam it shut any minute.

“Because I just came from Saint Ann’s, where I interviewed the Mother Superior. I also spoke to her assistant, Sister Annika. She sends her regards.” Seeing how Father Liam’s expression became less wary when he mentioned Sister Annika, Quilleran added, “By the way, she told me to tell you that it’s okay if you have to reveal something she told you in confession. Especially if it’s about Carol Marcus.”

“Carol Marcus?” A faraway look came into the old priest’s faded blue eyes, along with a look of great sadness. “It’s been years since I heard that name. But I never forgot it.”

“Do you also remember Father Malcolm McKenzie?”

Now a look of great distaste, bordering on anger, came over the old priest’s wrinkled visage. “Oh yes, I remember him all right.” There was more than a hint of anger in the cultured British voice. The hand that hung by his side clenched into a fist as he stared into the distance, across the years, seeing a scene from his past that made him look incredibly grim. Moments later he snapped out of it and looked up at Quilleran with a determined expression on his face. “I think perhaps you’d better come inside. Best not to discuss these matters in public.”

“Thank you, Father.” Quilleran followed him inside. After shutting and locking the door, Father Keller took his coat, hung it on a coatrack to the right of the door, and led him over to a worn but comfy off-white couch. He offered him tea, which he gratefully accepted, since his lunch was already a distant memory to his stomach. While he listened to the priest puttering around in the kitchen, he heard soft mewing sounds. He looked around, but saw no sign of cats. Just as he was beginning to think he had imagined it, he felt something warm and soft at the back of his neck. He was tempted to turn around, but he didn’t want to scare the little creature, so he held still.  

The next thing he felt was a cold little nose poking into his ear. A soft mew of inquiry, followed by a tiny paw patting his cheek, made him turn his head slowly to the left, where he came face to face with a little white kitten. “Gotcha!” he said with a smile.

The kitten blinked at him with big, blue eyes and emitted a soft mew that sounded a lot like “Me?”

“Yes, you! You thought you were clever, sneaking up on me like that, but I gotcha!” He reached out slowly with his right hand to pet the kitten. His hand looked so big and the kitten looked so small, he used the tips of his fingers to stroke it. The kitten mewed adorably and began to purr. He smiled as he stroked it gently. It was soft and white as a cloud, without a single black hair on it. He thought of Isis and wondered if she looked this adorable when she was little. He had met her when she was already grown, after he and Gary became a couple and he started spending more nights at Gary’s place than his. _*Too bad Gary had her fixed. I’ll bet she would have had some pretty kittens.*_

He heard a sound that reminded him of Isis digging her claws into the furniture. Then he saw a tiny white kitten with black ears climbing up the right side of the couch. It hung there for a moment, staring at him over the arm of the couch with big, blue eyes, like the old World War II cartoon character Kilroy Was Here. When it had caught its’ breath, it heaved itself up and over the arm of the couch and jumped down onto the seat, revealing it had a black saddle mark on its’ white back, as well as a black tail, which it held up like a flag as it boldly walked toward him. Another kitten came right behind it, climbing up and over the couch’s arm like a mountain climber. It was white with black socks on all four feet and had a black tail as well.

“How many of you are there, anyway?” Quilleran asked. “Didn’t your mother teach you not to talk to strangers?” By now he was holding the white kitten in his lap. It was purring contentedly as he stroked it, until the kitten with the black ears and tail and the black saddle on its’ back came up to Quilleran, demanding some attention for itself. The white kitten hissed and poked at it. It poked right back, and before he knew it, both kittens were rolling around on the couch, locked in each other’s arms, as they fought for the right to be petted by the visitor.

Meanwhile, another kitten climbed over the couch’s arm, this one with a black Harlequin mask and long, black gloves on its’ front paws, and two more kittens had climbed up the back of the couch behind him and were now perched on his shoulders, their tiny claws penetrating the material of his red shirt and stinging like little rose thorns. He laughed as he gently plucked them off and put them on the couch with the rest of their siblings. They were all white with black markings, the last two with black gloves on the front feet of one and black boots on the hind feet of the other, except for the all-white kitten that had introduced itself first.

While he was watching the kittens wrestle, as the others gawked at them, Father Keller came out of the kitchen with a tray in his hands, upon which sat a teapot, two cups with saucers, a milk pitcher and sugar bowl, a plate of lemon slices, another plate with four toasted crumpets, and a jar of lemon marmalade. “Oh, my goodness!” he exclaimed at the sight of all the kittens on the couch. “How did they get out of the bedroom? I know I shut them all in there with their mother, while the children were here.”

“Well, they’re all here now,” Quilleran remarked cheerfully. “Is that all of them?”

“Yes, Gladiola only had six.” A white cat appeared at his side and rubbed herself against his right leg, purring up a storm. The priest regarded her disapprovingly. “Bad girl! I know it was you who let them out, Glady. You’ve known how to open unlocked doors for years.”

“Does she jiggle the doorknob with her front paws?”

“Yes, since she was big enough to reach the doorknob while standing on her hind legs.” Gladiola looked up at him with melting blue eyes as she continued to purr loudly. “Oh, be quiet, you hussy! Go sit somewhere with your kids while I entertain our guest.” After rubbing herself against his leg one more time, Gladiola sauntered over to an easy chair between the sofa and the old-fashioned TV with a built-in VCR. She jumped up into the big, brown chair, whose seat cushion was covered in white cat hair, and curled up on the seat in a half-moon position, calling to the kittens to come join her.

Father Keller sighed. “That’s right, make yourself at home in my favorite chair, why don’t you?”

_*Thanks, I believe I will,*_ Gladiola replied, with the confidence of a cat who knows she is loved. _*Come on, darlings, it’s snack time.*_ The kittens jumped down from the couch and swarmed over to her, then proceeded to climb up the easy chair as easily as they had climbed up the sofa. They all crowded up to her belly, each one trying to nurse at a favorite nipple. There was much pushing and shoving, quite a bit of scratching and clawing and yowls of protest as they complained to their mother about their siblings’ selfishness. Eventually they settled down and nursed quietly while their mother licked them lovingly. By that time, Father Keller had settled beside his guest, after putting the tea tray on the scarred wooden coffee table in front of the sofa. Both men were sipping hot tea the way they liked it, Keller with milk and sugar, Quilleran with sugar and lemon.

They spent some time discussing cats they had owned. After his second crumpet with lemon marmalade, which was both sweet and tart, a perfect complement to the lemon tea he was drinking, Quilleran finally got down to business. “How well did you know Carol Marcus back in 1967?”

“The same way I knew most of the girls at Saint Ann’s, by her voice in the confessional. In those days we didn’t have face-to-face confessions, anybody who wanted to confess their sins had to sit in the confessional booth, with a screen between them and the priest, to insure anonymity. I used to go to Saint Ann’s every Friday afternoon at four to hear confessions in the chapel, and on Saturday and Sunday mornings to say mass. I eventually came to know most of the girls quite well, when I recognized their voices, inside and outside the confessional.”

“So Carol must have been one of your regulars, if you were able to recognize her voice outside of the confessional.”

“Yes, and she wasn’t the only one.” Father Keller took a sip of his tea and sighed. “Most of my regulars were like her, sad young girls packed off by their parents to have their babies in secret. A few of them were angry young women, who blamed their absent boyfriends for deserting them when they needed him most. They also blamed their parents for sending them to Saint Ann’s, which they thought of as a prison instead of a haven for unwed mothers to avoid being publically shamed. But most of their anger was centered on the boyfriends. You should have heard some of the things those girls confessed to me, about what they’d like to do to their runaway boyfriends. Some of those confessions were just one long, angry rant about how they wanted to track down the boyfriend and make him pay for his betrayal in the slowest, most painful way possible.”

“I can’t say I blame them,” said Quilleran. “Nothing ruins the memory of first love like getting pregnant and getting dumped. Then being sent away to live among strangers, who never miss an opportunity to tell you how sinful you are, and finally suffering hours of agony to have your baby, only to be forced to give it up. Talk about love’s labors's lost.” He took a healthy bite of his crumpet and chewed thoughtfully.

“Yes, those girls had plenty to be angry about. Some of them got so loud, I had to remind them to be calm and keep their voices down in church. Then there were the sad girls who still loved their boyfriends, and were hoping and praying that he’d come to rescue them from this dreadful place. Carol Marcus was one of them. Every Friday she’d tell me how she prayed for her Jim’s safety in Vietnam and for his swift return home, so that they could be married. Until the day her father told her that her Jim had been killed in action, along with half his Navy squadron. The poor girl wept her heart out to me in confession that Friday, only three days after Valentine’s Day, too.” He cocked his gray head to one side as he regarded Quilleran shrewdly. “I’m guessing that you’ve already spoken to Carol about what happened to her while she was at Saint Ann’s, all those years ago. So I’m not violating the sanctity of the confessional by telling you this.”

“Yes, I have, and no, you’re not,” Quilleran told him. “I would never ask a priest to violate the sanctity of confession. I know all about protecting your sources.” He wiped lemony stickiness off his lips and fingertips with a napkin before continuing. “I interviewed Carol Marcus just a few days ago, along with her husband, Captain James T. Kirk.”

“So he’s alive, then? Was he taken prisoner?”

“Yes, he spent eighteen months in a Vietnamese prison camp, along with half of his squadron. But Carol’s father told her he had been killed. He even showed her a casualty list with Jim’s name on it that he had altered to read ‘dead’.”

“Did he? Well! How heartless of him!” The good father frowned as he held his now empty teacup in his wrinkled hands.

“You think that’s heartless? Do you know what Mother Alice did to get Carol to give up her baby for adoption?”

“Yes, I do.” The old priest sighed. “Sister Annika told me in her own confession the following month, after the deed was done. She waited until the last possible minute. Just when I thought nobody else was going to confess and was getting ready to go, I heard her voice on the other side of the screen saying ‘Bless me, Father, for I have sinned'. Then she told me about the whole sordid business. The poor girl was racked with guilt for her part in it.”

“Did you confront Mother Alice? 

“No, I couldn’t do that without violating the sanctity of confession. I was also worried about what she would do to Annie for squealing on her. Beneath that motherly veneer of hers, Alice is a hard woman. Slow to anger, but slow to forgive as well.”

“Yes, I got that impression from her too,” Quilleran said, remembering what he’d overheard behind the office door as Mother Alice dealt with the runaway girl.

“But after hearing Carol’s confession earlier about her baby’s death on Monday, and the paper she signed to have him buried at Saint Ann’s, well, I knew I had to do something.” Father Keller poured himself another cup of tea. He offered one to Quilleran too, who accepted it and urged him to go on. After putting milk and sugar in his tea, he continued. “The first thing I did was go to Alice’s office and ask if there had been any recent births, so I could baptize the babies. She smiled in my face and lied in her teeth when she said, ‘I’m sorry, Father, we’ve had two babies die at birth here since Monday.’” He mimicked Mother Alice’s unctuous voice perfectly. “‘We buried them in the same grave for now. One of the girls’ families will pay for a separate grave and headstone later. Father Malcolm already baptized them, but you may bless the grave if you wish.’”

“Can you do that in the Catholic Church? Baptize dead babies?”

“Yes, any baptized Catholic may baptize a dead or dying infant. It’s more of a courtesy, really, since newborn babies are pure souls without sin, so they go straight to heaven when they die. The grace bestowed by baptism is just to expedite the process, grease the wheels of admission, if you will.”

“Mmm...” Quilleran sat sipping tea thoughtfully for a moment before commenting, “When I was in the Army, I saw chaplains giving the Last Rites to soldiers who had been killed in combat. I used to wonder, if they were already dead when the priest arrived, why bother? They didn’t get to confess their sins before they died, so what good did it do?"     

“It’s like chicken soup for the soul, my son. It couldn’t hurt,” Father Keller told him with a smile.

Quilleran laughed. “Okay, so it’s not necessary for someone to be alive to receive the graces bestowed by the Last Rites.”

“No, and it’s not necessary for a priest to baptize a dead or dying baby. It’s just to comfort the parents, really. As for blessing the grave, that’s usually done at the burial, before they lower the coffin into the ground. So Alice was just being polite when she invited me to bless the little grave both babies were supposedly buried in. But I agreed to do it, so she escorted me to the cemetery and showed me a little grave with a temporary marker on it, with two names.”

“Two names?” He leaned forward eagerly. “Are you sure? 

“Yes, two names, a girl’s and a boy’s. It was just a black plastic block with a white card inserted in it, showing the babies’ names typed on two separate lines, right above the date they were born and died, March 13, 1967.”

“And what were the two names?”

“Emily Maxwell and David Marcus. I was even given two mass cards with the names printed on them, so I could pray for them and ask my parishioners to do so at Sunday mass.”

“She had mass cards printed?” Quilleran was astounded by the trouble Mother Alice had gone to, making sure that Carol would believe that her baby was dead.

“Oh yes, she did all the right things to console the babies’ grieving mothers,” the priest told him, with an edge of sarcasm to his elegant voice. “But afterwards, when we went back to her office, just as she was ordering coffee for us, one of the nuns came in to inform her that there was a problem with one of the local merchants who supplied the home. She excused herself and left me alone for a few minutes, during which I took advantage of the opportunity to go through her desk. I found the list of recent adoptions in her top desk drawer. Whose name do you think I found at the top?”

“David Marcus.”

“Yes, David Marcus, now David Scott, adopted on the same day that he died. With the list were his adoption papers, along with his birth and death certificates, both signed by Doctor Phillip Felix, the resident doctor at Saint Ann’s.”

“What a miracle!” Quilleran said sarcastically, “Bringing a dead baby back to life so that he could be adopted!”

“Yes, they should have named him Lazarus.” Father Keller took a long sip of his now lukewarm tea to ease his dry throat.

Quilleran snorted and scarfed down the last of his crumpet. “Were you able to make copies of these documents?”

“No, unfortunately there was no copy machine available. And cellphones with cameras hadn’t been invented yet. But I was able to write down the address of little David’s new family before Mother Alice returned, full of apologies, accompanied by a novice nun carrying a tray full of coffee things. It was Sister Annika; she looked so sad, I thought Alice had been at her. I often overheard her through the closed door of her office, rebuking one of the nuns or the pregnant girls like my old drill sergeant in the Royal Navy, reaming out one of us raw recruits. Minus the profanity, of course.” His blue eyes twinkled above his teacup as he held it delicately in his wrinkled hands.

“I’m sure she was able to express herself quite adequately without any bad words,” remarked Quilleran, remembering again the conversation he had overheard.

“Well, I had a few words I would have loved to say to her. But Annie’s sad face reminded me that it was my sacred duty to keep quiet about things I learned in the confessional. So I held my tongue and stayed long enough to drink some coffee. Then I left, after promising to pray for the souls of both those innocents, David and Emily. As I left, I winked at Annie and whispered ‘I found David’. She looked puzzled for a moment, then she looked relieved and nodded.

“When I got home, I found that bastard McKenzie lounging about in the parlor at the rectory. He’d been staying with me at the church since just after Christmas. He was supposed to be helping me with my ecclesiastical duties, since I was spending so much time going back and forth between the church and Saint Ann’s. He had made tea and was drinking it on the sofa, along with one of the ladies on the altar committee, to whom he was being very charming. She was laughing at something he had said when I walked in. I couldn’t say what I wanted to say in front of her, so I waited until she had finished her tea and left. Then I sat down beside him and said, ‘Tell me, Father Malcolm, did you baptize both the babies who died at Saint Ann’s?’ He smiled in my face and lied in his teeth too, saying ‘Yes, both the little angels.’ And I said, ‘Ah, but only one of them was really an angel.’

“Well, he looked at me as if I had gone quite mad and said ‘Are you inferring that one of those precious little innocents was not worthy of Heaven?’ And I looked at him with all the disgust I felt for him and Mother Alice, and I said, ‘Both those little innocents certainly qualify for Heaven, but you surely don’t! And neither does that sanctified hypocrite who calls herself a nun! Or have Mr. and Mrs. Scott adopted a dead baby?’

“He was so shocked that he dropped his teacup, spilling tea all over my carpet, as well as breaking one of my best teacups. His eyes were as wide as an owl’s. He screeched at me like an owl too, saying ‘How do you know that?’ I just smiled and said ‘A little bird told me in the chapel at Saint Ann’s. I think it was the Holy Spirit.’ He snarled like a savage, ‘I’ll bet it was that Marcus girl! I knew she was going to be trouble!’

“And I said, ‘Trouble? My dear fellow, you don’t know what trouble is yet. When I tell my bishop what you and Alice have done—’ That’s when he grabbed me by my shirt front and pulled me so close, we were face to face. And he snarled at me like a dog, ‘Your bishop can’t do a thing to me! I’m the cardinal’s representative! I have the authority to do whatever it takes to get the Marcus baby adopted, in the cardinal’s name!’

“I said, ‘Anything? Even fake a baby’s death? Break a young girl’s heart?’ And he smiled this terrible smile and said, ‘Why not? Her father had already broken it, when he told her that her boyfriend was dead.’ I felt my own heart sinking when I saw that smile and heard him say that. I said ‘It was a lie, wasn’t it?’ He kept smiling that terrible smile as he said, ‘Of course it was. How else could we get her to give up the brat, except to convince her that there would be no happy ending for her and Jim and their baby? But she still wanted to keep it. So Mother Alice decided to fake the baby’s death, to make sure it was adopted.’

“I thought I couldn’t get any madder, but now I was furious. So I grabbed him by the back of his neck and shook him like a dog that’s messed on the floor, while I shouted, ‘Are you telling me this was Alice’s idea? You were the one who told Carol that the baby was dead! You even showed her a dead baby and told her it was hers!’ And he yelled back, ‘Of course I did! She was demanding to see her baby and have it baptized! So I went and took the dead baby, wrapped it in a blue blanket and told her it was her son! She fell for it, so I baptized it for her and she finally let it go.’ I asked him, “How could you profane the sacred rite of baptism?’ He just sneered at me, ‘Oh, don’t worry, I used tap water, not holy water. So I only pretended to baptize a dead baby girl with a boy’s name. God will understand.’

“I said, “Oh, will He?” and punched him in the face as hard as I could. He went down like a rock. Fell right off the couch and tried to crawl away like the dirty dog he was. So I knelt on his back and began punching his head, right fist, left fist, right fist, left fist, until I was too tired to punch him anymore.” Father Keller leaned back against the couch with a sigh, exhausted just by telling the tale of his righteous wrath against the deceitful priest.

“Did he say anything else? Or threaten you with the cardinal’s wrath?”

“I didn’t give him a chance to. I got up off him, breathing heavily, rubbing my sore hands together while I got my breath back. When I did, I told him as calmly as I could, “I want you out of here, at once. Pack your bags and get out. I can’t do anything about poor Carol’s baby, but that doesn’t mean I can’t make your life miserable for letting it happen.’ He just lay there moaning until I nudged him with the toe of my shoe and said, “Well, what are you waiting for? Pack your bags and get out, before I kick you in the arse.’ He got up on his hands and knees and crept out of the parlor like a beaten dog, while I stood glaring at him, praying to God for the patience to let him go without kicking him in the arse like I said I would.”

“And he just left quietly?” Quilleran asked, skeptically. He didn’t think someone as self-righteous and arrogant as McKenzie would go quietly after being beaten up by a mere parish priest, no matter how well deserved the beating had been.

“Yes, I didn’t see him again until I heard him coming down the rectory stairs with his suitcase. I had already told my housekeeper that Father McKenzie was leaving. When she asked me why, I told her that I had heard rumors about him behaving in an unseemly way with the ladies on the altar committee. I told her that I had walked in on him and the lady he was talking to in the parlor, and caught them in a compromising position, so as far as I was concerned, that was proof that the rumors were true. I also told her that the lady was in tears and fighting to get away from him, and urged her not to say a word to anyone, to protect the lady’s name, since she was married. Of course I knew that the story would be spread from one end of the parish to another by suppertime; dear old Sara was a dedicated housekeeper and a devout Catholic, but a terrible gossip. Thankfully, she believed my story and kept the lady’s name out of it, so my parishioners wound up blaming McKenzie for trying to seduce her, rather than accuse her of throwing herself at a priest.

“Anyway, I stood there at the bottom of the stairs with my arms folded, watching him descend. He moved very slowly, as if he had a headache, which I’m sure he did after the thumping I gave him. When he got to the bottom of the stairs, he paused, then turned to look at me as if he wanted to say something. I didn’t give him a chance; I just pointed to the door with one hand, while keeping my other hand on my chest balled up in a fist. He took the hint and left quietly, slinking away with his tail between his legs like a dog that’s been kicked.

“And that’s the last I ever saw of Father Malcolm McKenzie,” Father Keller concluded, laying his head back on the sofa with his eyes closed as he let out one long sigh. Gladiola, who had silently jumped up on the arm of the sofa while he was talking, staring at him with serious blue eyes, now glided over and laid down in his lap, looking up at him with sympathy in her bright eyes. Her kittens had followed her and now sat or laid around her, except for the white one, who had claimed squatter’s rights in Quilleran’s lap. He stroked the kitten, feeling the tension melt out of him at the feel of the soft fur. He still felt a little disgusted at the description of McKenzie’s behavior when he was confronted by Keller. He had a bad feeling that wasn’t the last Keller had heard of the bad shepherd, as he privately thought of McKenzie, even if he had never seen him again. He started to ask him if he had ever heard from McKenzie again when there suddenly came a loud knocking on the front door.

“Who could that be at this hour?” the old priest wondered. Quilleran looked out the nearest window and saw how dark it had become outside. He looked at his watch and it read 6:40 p.m. It was still dimly lit in Keller’s living room, so he turned the switch on a tall, brass floor lamp next to the sofa as he rose, making the room a bit brighter. Quilleran realized it was a three-way lamp, like the one in his apartment, and pictured his husband sitting in his favorite chair beneath this lamp, reading the evening news while Isis lay on the chair arm beside him, licking herself clean. This cozy domestic scene in his head disappeared when he heard Gladiola hissing. Startled, he looked at the cat and saw her with her mouth open, showing her pearly little teeth as she growled, staring at her human as he walked slowly to the door, the fur on her back rising until she looked twice her size. Her kittens regarded her fearfully, a couple mewing anxiously as they asked what was wrong. Quilleran got another bad feeling as he realized Gladiola was responding to the presence of whoever was outside the door. Some animals were said to be instinctive judges of character. So whoever was out there probably didn’t have good intentions toward the priest. He knew it was silly relying on an animal’s impression of a visitor who came calling after dark, but years of experience as a cat person had taught him to trust a cat’s instincts before his own. So he gently put the white kitten aside and followed Keller silently to the front door.

He stayed well behind the priest as he looked through the peephole and called, “Who is it?”

From the other side of the door, he heard a voice that sounded like a young boy’s. “Father, is this your cat? I found him outside in the street.”

“Oh, dear!” Father Keller sounded upset as he looked through the peephole at the visitor. He quickly unlocked the door and opened it, revealing a short, gangly young boy not more than fifteen; he was bald, with big ears and beady little black eyes, wearing a brown jacket with a sheepskin collar and khaki pants, holding a limp cat in his arms. “Oh, no!” said Keller at the sight of the cat, which was black, without a single white hair on its’ body. “Not Nightshade! What happened?”

“I found him lying in the street,” the boy said, “when I was walking by on the way home from evening mass. I think a car must have hit him.” He sounded sympathetic, but Quilleran, who was staying out of sight from the door, saw his bald head, beady little eyes and phony smile, and distrusted him on sight. He didn’t look like the type of kid who’d go to evening mass. Especially with that suspicious-looking bulge in his right coat pocket. When Keller took the dead cat in his arms and stood lamenting him, the boy slyly reached into his bulging pocket and pulled out a folded switchblade. When the priest turned away from him to lay the dead cat on the chair beneath the coat rack, the boy opened the switchblade with a single flip of the wrist that spoke of experience, and lunged at the priest.

Quilleran sprang forward the moment he saw the gleam of metal. He managed to grab the boy before he could stab the priest in the back. They struggled for a few moments before Quilleran got him in a judo hold and flipped him, making him fall to the floor face down. He was still holding the knife, so Quilleran knelt on his back and leaned forward, grabbing both his wrists. “Get the knife, Father!” he yelled.

“Knife?” Keller looked confused as he saw the reporter attacking the young man who’d kindly brought his dead cat home.

“He’s got a knife!” Quilleran yelled again, leaning heavily on the boy’s wrists while making sure his right knee was planted firmly in his back. “Get it away from him and call 911!” 

“B-But why?” The kindly old priest looked bewildered. “Why would someone bring my dead cat to my door so he could attack me?”

“He probably killed the cat himself, so he could have an excuse to knock on your door after dark,” Quilleran told him grimly. “But I know a punk when I see one. And this kid’s got ‘punk’ written all over him. I knew he was up to no good before I even saw the knife. And I’ll bet I know who sent him, too.”      

“W-Who? W-Who could possibly want to kill me?” Keller stammered nervously. “I live here quietly and have hurt no one.”

“I’ll bet Father McKenzie would disagree with you. Wouldn’t he?” Quilleran asked the boy lying sprawled beneath him. “Answer me, you little punk! Did McKenzie send you?”

“I ain’t saying nothing,” the boy replied sullenly.

“Oh, you’ll have plenty to say when you see a charge of attempted murder staring you in the face. Or did he promise to bail you out if you got caught?” The boy’s silence spoke volumes, the look on his face that of a youngster who’s used to broken promises from the adults he trusted, but still hoping that this particular adult would be different. “Are you planning to use your one phone call to tell him you got busted? Will we see him coming to get you?” Silence was the only answer. “Okay, Shorty, give up the knife and I’ll try not to break your back before the cops get here. Father, take it!”

Keller knelt to take the switchblade from the tough kid’s slack hand, while Quilleran continued to keep him pinned down. The shaken priest put the knife aside and picked up a portable phone on the wall. Quilleran heard three beeps as he dialed the police emergency number. He spoke briefly to the operator, describing what just happened and giving his name and address. He hung up the phone, looked at them both sadly and said, “They’re on their way.” He looked at the young man lying sprawled beneath his savior and shook his grey head. “After all these years, McKenzie finds it necessary to silence me?”

“I ain’t saying nothing,” the boy repeated, grimacing in pain as Quilleran increased the pressure on his back.

“I hope you got paid in advance, punk,” Quilleran taunted him. “The last guy McKenzie hired to do his dirty work didn’t get shit when he failed to get results.” He wondered if McKenzie had gotten around to sending Jean-Luc the doctored blackmail photos, now that he was out of town again. He still hadn’t done so when he returned from interviewing Dr. Marcus. Perhaps he was busy trying to come up with something sneakier. Or was this the best he could do? A thought occurred to him; he said to the boy, “What possessed you to try to stab the priest when you knew he had company? I’m sure you saw my car parked outside. What if I had answered the door instead, huh?”

“Wouldn’t have made no difference to me,” the boy mumbled, his bald head now gleaming with sweat as he fought to hide the pain he was in.

“Oh, really?” Quilleran grabbed one of his arms and twisted it behind his back. The boy let out a yell and a curse, which only made Quilleran twist his arm harder. “And just what did you mean by that, Shorty?”

“Don’t call me Shorty!” The kid seemed very sensitive about his lack of height. Quilleran guessed it was why he became such a tough little punk, to get back at guys who picked on him because he was so short.

“Tell me why you attacked a priest in his own home, in front of a witness,” Quilleran demanded. “You had to know that he wasn’t alone. Why did you do it?”

The boy snarled like a feral dog as he glared up at Quilleran. “Because I wasn’t after him, I was after you! I just wanted to get him out of the way first! If you had come to the door instead, I would have killed you quick and got away before he saw me. I wouldn’t have had to hurt the _padre_. I didn’t want to hurt the _padre_. But I had no choice!”

Both men regarded the youngster with shock and horror as a police car pulled up in front of the house.

********

The boy didn’t say another word as the police took him into custody and took statements from Father Keller, whom they had known since they were altar boys, and from Quilleran, whom they thanked for saving the honest old priest from certain death. After they left, the still stunned reporter asked, “Father, do you still have the address of the people who adopted Carol’s baby?”

“Yes, I do,” Keller admitted.

“Will you let me have it? I think it’s time that David met his real parents.”

“So do I. Just let me bury poor Nightshade and I’ll get it for you.” He looked sadly at the dead black cat, whose neck had been broken by the boy’s brutal hands. “He’s the kittens’ father. He still came around to see Glady now and then. Poor creature was a stray, and so wild he didn’t trust anybody. I would leave food out for him, and built him a little shelter out back, so he could stay warm and dry during bad weather. He was just starting to trust me enough to let me pet him while he ate. That boy must have offered him food. How else could he have gotten close enough to kill him?”

“I guess we should bury him out back then. Let me take a couple of pictures as evidence.” Quilleran used his cell phone camera to take two pictures of Nightshade, one of them a close-up plainly showing how the cat’s broken neck hung at an angle. Father Keller found an old blanket to wrap him in and carried him tenderly outside to the little vegetable garden behind the kitchen. Quilleran helped him fetch the spade and shovel from the shed and they dug a little grave by moonlight, right next to the tomato vines.

While they were digging, Gladiola and her kittens gathered round the dead cat. Cats can’t cry, but Gladiola certainly sounded like a grieving widow as she mourned for her mate. _*My babies’ father! My babies’ father!*_ she wailed, nudging him with her pink nose as if she was trying to wake him. _*Just when I thought I had convinced you to come live with us! Oh, Nighty, why didn’t you come live with us? Why couldn’t you be an indoors cat, instead of an outdoors cat? You would have had to be neutered too, but that’s a small price to pay for being safe and warm and cared for by this kind man. And we still would have been together, even after the kids grew up.*_ She sat back on her haunches and wailed her sorrow to the moon, while the kittens huddled around her, some of them taking a timid poke at the blanket-wrapped bundle that held the remains of their father. His failure to move, and the smell of death from the furry black face showing at one end, made even the boldest of them retreat to their mother’s side.

When the grave was ready, the priest picked up the black cat in his white woolen shroud and laid him gently in the hole. Quilleran waited while Keller said a prayer to Saint Francis of Assisi on behalf of his furry friend, then shoveled dirt over Nightshade. Keller had to pick up Gladiola and hold her when she objected to seeing her beloved’s body covered with dirt. The kittens just mewed forlornly, too scared and confused to understand why their daddy didn’t move anymore and why he was being buried in a hole.

After washing up, Father Keller made sure that Gladiola and the kittens had plenty of food before he shut them in the kitchen. He looked through his desk and found the old notepad where he’d hastily written the address he found in Mother Alice’s desk drawer and gave it to Quilleran, who thanked him and said good night before he drove back to the hotel where he was staying.

Later that night, Quilleran lay sleepless in his hotel room, wondering if he should call Jean-Luc and tell him about his close call. He decided not to, so he wouldn’t upset him. Instead he got out the brown fleece throw blanket Jean-Luc had packed and wrapped it around himself as he lay in bed watching the TV. He finally fell asleep watching an old episode of “Murder, She Wrote." 

As for Father Keller, he lay in bed quietly weeping for Nightshade and all the other outdoors cats who had met a cruel end at human hands, because they were too proud to live under a human’s roof. He also wept for the baby boy whose illegal adoption he had failed to report, along with God alone knew how many other babies born at Saint Ann’s Maternity Home. He didn’t weep alone; Gladiola found a way out of the kitchen after jumping up repeatedly to jiggle the doorknob from the inside. She and her kittens made their way to the priest’s room, where they joined him in bed, surrounding him with warmth and love as Gladiola purred into his ear comfortingly. He finally fell asleep near dawn, with one hand on her back, her head resting on his cheek, while the kittens slept snuggled against his sides.

  


	12. Chapter 12

THE BAD SHEPHERD

 CHAPTER 12 OF 15

BOSTON, MASSACHUSETS

FRIDAY, MARCH 30th, 4:15 p.m., 2012

_“For children are innocent and love justice, while most of us are wicked and naturally prefer mercy.”—_ G.K. Chesterton

At the same time that his husband was visiting Father Liam Keller, Jean-Luc Picard was entertaining his two lady friends. Bettina Torres-Paris and her daughter Miral were enjoying afternoon tea with him. The child was wearing her princess tiara, sparkling rhinestone diamonds and silver wires shaped like a wreath of leaves on her curly, dark hair, and a white cashmere scarf draped over the shoulders of her Catholic school uniform like a fur stole, as she chatted with Jean-Luc and her mother about her favorite animated movie, “Beauty and The Beast”.

Her mother was wearing a grey faux fur jacket over her sweatshirt, as a concession to her daughter’s desire for glamor, and an imitation pearl tiara, both of which she had found in a used clothing store when she and Miral and Jean-Luc had gone there to look for fancy dress clothing to wear for tea time. As for their host, he was wearing a formal white tuxedo jacket over a dress shirt. From the waist up, they both looked quite elegant. Only a peep beneath the dining table at which they sat revealed that Bettina wore blue jeans and blue sneakers, and Jean-Luc wore black sweatpants and black running shoes. But they both held their teacups upon their saucers properly, and smiled indulgently as they discussed Belle and her devotion to the Beast, in between sips of Earl Grey and bites of little sandwiches stuffed with egg salad, tomato and mozzarella cheese, and deviled ham.

Isis, wearing a rhinestone collar which Miral had given her for formal occasions like these, was lapping up the last of her tuna with milk from her royal purple bowl next to the dining table. The discussion was getting around to the subject of magic when Jean-Luc began passing around a dish of coconut macaroons, which Miral had helped him to make before her mother’s arrival. Just as they were taking their first bites, there was a knock on the door.

“Who’s that?” asked Miral around a mouthful of macaroon, forgetting her manners for the moment.

Bettina swallowed her mouthful before answering. “I don’t know. Could it be Q back already?”

“Maybe it’s Daddy,” said Miral hopefully.

“No, Honey, Daddy’s shift doesn’t end until eight.”

“Well, whoever it is, there’s only one way to find out,” declared the host as he put down his teacup and half-eaten macaroon.

Before he could rise from his seat, Miral was already running into the foyer yelling “I’ll get it!” He laughed and followed her at a more leisurely pace, followed closely by Isis, who paused only for a brief pet from Bettina, who then finished her macaroon and washed it down with tea before reaching for another.

Before Picard had reached the door, Isis’ fur was already standing on end; her tail puffed up and her fangs came out as the smell of the person on the other side of the door made a low growl escape from her throat. Her human didn’t see or hear these warning signals. Neither did the child, who was already calling out, “Who is it?” to the unknown visitor.

A man’s voice with a British accent replied. “It’s Father McKenzie. Is Jean-Luc Picard at home, please?”

When he heard that voice, Picard stopped cold. “Miral!” he whispered frantically. “Don’t open the door!”

But the child was already unlocking the door. Before he could stop her, she had opened it and stood looking up at the priest in his black overcoat and black cleric suit, against which his white Roman collar gleamed. McKenzie smiled at the little girl wearing a princess tiara and white stole over her school uniform. “Good afternoon, your highness. I hope I didn’t interrupt you during a ball?”

“No, we were just having tea,” she assured him. “May I help you?”

“No! No!” Picard whispered to her.

But she didn’t hear him. “Mister Picard is hosting a tea for us this afternoon,” she informed him in her most ladylike manner. “But if your business is important, I’m sure he’d be glad to make time for you.”

“Yes, it is most important,” McKenzie told her gravely. “Would you please tell him that Father McKenzie would like to have a word with him in private?”

“All right. Wait here, please.” She gently shut the door and turned around, then found herself swept up and carried back to the dining area by her frantic older friend, whose cat galloped alongside him with her ears laid flat. Both ran as if the devil were on their doorstep, which he was. “Jean-Luc! What are you doing?” Miral demanded, confused by her friend’s behavior.

“What is it?” Bettina asked as he deposited her daughter beside her at the table, alarmed by how pale he was.

“Both of you stay here!” he hissed. “That man outside is trouble! He’s trying to break up my marriage by fair or foul means, and I don’t think he’s here to talk about anything suitable for ladies to hear. So stay here and pretend you can’t hear what we’re discussing, no matter how loud we get. I know from experience that he can get very loud when he’s angry, and he’s sure to be angry when I try to send him away. Miral, can you sing something with your mother so he won’t think you’re evesdropping?”

“What’s that?” asked Miral as she straightened her tiara.

“He means listening in, Honey. Let’s sing real loud so that man outside will think we’re not interested in what he’s saying to Jean-Luc. How about ‘Be Our Guest’?” Miral agreed, so she and her mother both sang the song from her favorite movie while Picard went to deal with his unwanted guest. Isis came with him, determined to deal with the intruder her own way if he didn’t leave Daddy Jean-Luc alone.

After mentally girding his loins, he opened the door to find McKenzie waiting for him. “Good afternoon, Father,” he said coolly. “What can I do for you?”

“May I come in, Jean-Luc? I really would rather not discuss this out here, where the neighbors might hear.”

“Very well.” He held the door open reluctantly. “But you’ll go no further than the foyer. I don’t want my guests disturbed.”

“As you wish.” McKenzie came inside, hands in his coat pockets, and stopped in the foyer as requested. Inside the apartment, he could hear a child’s voice and a woman’s singing “Be Our Guest” from the Disney movie “Beauty and The Beast”. He smiled, grateful that the innocents would be spared from the sordid subject he had come to discuss. He turned to Picard, who was shutting the door. “I hope you are well, Jean-Luc?”

“Quite well, I thank you,” Picard replied stiffly. “Please say what you came to say and leave. I have no intention of offering you tea.”

“Well, I’ll overlook your rudeness since I know you must be under a bit of stress. Wondering where your ‘husband’ is, perhaps?”

“”No, I know exactly where my husband is, thank you very much.” He stood with his arms folded, looking at him as if wondering when to throw the first punch. “Or were you planning to show me some pictures you took of him with that unfortunate young man you set to stalking him?”

McKenzie smiled outwardly while cursing inwardly. _*I knew I should have run off before that girl caught sight of me! She must have tipped him off that I was there.*_ The doctored pictures were in fact in an envelope inside his coat, but they were obviously of no use now. “Really, Jean-Luc, did you think I came here only to vilify your ‘husband’? There’s not much I can do to blacken a name that’s already very dark in journalistic circles.”

“Only by those who were singled out in his stories. Most of whom are in jail now,” Picard took pleasure in reminding him.

“You really should warn him not to be so nosy. Some very important people may take offense at him poking his nose where it doesn’t belong.” McKenzie’s smile was beginning to look like the Joker’s, strained and scary, with more than a hint of madness.

“He’s just doing his job, informing the public of the inner workings of the Catholic Church. If these very important people you refer to have nothing to hide, then they have nothing to fear.”

McKenzie’s smile became more strained as he clenched his fists inside his pockets. “Really, Jean-Luc, do you think I would bother to come here and disrupt what I’m sure is a delightful tea with your little friend only to protect my secret? I happen to share this secret with certain prominent people, some of whom you know personally, or through your Mr. Quilleran. Like Carol Marcus.”

“Really?” Picard said in his most aristocratic drawl as he looked down his highbred nose at him. Despite being shorter than McKenzie, his regal bearing gave the pompous priest the impression that he was looking up at him, which was highly disturbing, since McKenzie was the sort who needed to be in control of every situation. Right now he felt as if he was rapidly losing control of this one. “Well, I happen to know someone you know too. Remember Sister Edith Keeler? She remembers you quite well. Not at all kindly, I might add.”

Isis gave a throaty feline chuckle from where she crouched beneath the mail table by the coat tree next to the door. _*Ooo, I don’t think he likes being reminded of Edith. Look at that face!*_ The priest’s expression reminded her of a dog that has bitten into a tasty treat only to find a bitter pill hidden inside.

“This does not concern Sister Edith,” said McKenzie abruptly. “My only wish is to spare Carol Marcus from embarrassment. I’m sure you know that she’s now an eminent scientist, quite well known and outstanding in her field. What do you suppose it will do to her career if it comes out that she gave birth to an illegitimate child in her teens?”

“Didn’t that child die?” Picard asked innocently.

Now McKenzie looked extremely uncomfortable. He took his right hand out of his pocket so he could tug at his Roman collar, which seemed to have become a bit too tight. “Yes, of course, the child is dead, but the record of his birth still exists. It can cause a great deal of embarrassment for Dr. Marcus if it becomes public knowledge.”

“Are you sure it’s Dr. Marcus’ reputation that you want to protect? Or that of your late mentor, Francis Joseph Cardinal Spellman?”

Neither man noticed that the singing had stopped and a curious little girl and her mother had crept up close enough to overhear them while remaining unseen. McKenzie, whose back was to the entryway to the apartment, became red-faced with rage as he snarled at Picard. “Don’t you dare slander the cardinal! He was a good man, who made many sacrifices for his friends! He charged me with carrying out a promise he made to a dear friend back in 1967, only months before his death. I personally saw to it that this promise was kept, so when the cardinal’s time came he was able to die easily.”

“I’m sure he did, knowing his fateful lapdog had carried out his assignment. Or were you just an errand boy, sent to make sure that others carried out the cardinal’s wishes? Like Mother Alice Kelly?” He saw McKenzie flinch at the sound of her name. “What was this promise that the cardinal made to his friend? That he would help him find a child to adopt, to carry on his name?” Picard studied the flushed face before him and saw it start to whiten with fear, and he knew that he had guessed correctly. “The cardinal’s friend must have been on the adoption waiting list for some time, for him to be desperate enough to ask for his help. Was he an older man, perhaps? Or in such poor health that Catholic Charities’ social workers didn’t think he would live long enough to see the child grow up?”

“Unfortunately, the child did grow up without his father,” McKenzie admitted, fighting to stay calm as his fists clenched and unclenched at his sides. “He died of emphysema before his son was a year old. But his mother is still living.”

“Which one?”

“Both his mothers!” McKenzie snarled at him again. “The one who gave him life and the one who raised him. Both these ladies would be terribly embarrassed and heartbroken if the truth were revealed.”

“But not as embarrassed as you would be, hmm?” Picard eyed him shrewdly over his folded arms, recognizing bullshit when he heard it. “No, I think that neither of these ladies would be as embarrassed as you, if word of your part in this adoption came to light. That’s why you want Q to stop digging into Carol’s past, don’t you? You’re afraid she’ll find out that her child didn’t die, that you and Mother Alice sold him to his new parents while Carol was mourning him for dead. I suppose you got a share of the no doubt generous donation the grateful parents made to Saint Ann’s Maternity Home? Tell me, was Carol’s baby the only one? Or did you help to arrange other private adoptions?”

“You can’t prove a thing!” McKenzie told him harshly. “And neither can your so-called husband! And if he doesn’t stop poking around in Rhineland, he may not come home again.”

 "What do you mean?” Picard demanded. 

McKenzie gave him the same cruel smile he had given Father Keller forty-five years ago. “I mean that if he makes the mistake of calling on a certain priest I knew at that time—a priest who had the effrontery to question my duty to the cardinal, and who beat me and threw me out of his rectory for doing my duty—Well, bad things do happen to reporters who get too close to the truth. Look what happened to your predecessor.”

Now it was Picard’s turn to clench his fists. “I think perhaps it’s time for you to go.”

“Oh, don’t worry, I’m leaving. Now that I’ve given you a friendly warning, I’m glad to go. But remember that the Church will still be there for you, Jean-Luc, when your unlawful spouse fails to come home.” He smiled sweetly as he spewed poison from his lips. “Such a dedicated reporter. A man in his profession must make a lot of enemies. So it shouldn’t come as a surprise if he should be found dead while pursuing his profession.”

“Get out!” Picard told him through clenched teeth.

McKenzie went on, deliberately picking at the old wound on Picard’s soul. “You seem to have a habit of picking men who are short-lived. Your late friend, Chief Petty Officer Miles O’Brien, was also very dedicated to his duty. So dedicated he didn’t have the sense to keep from volunteering for a scouting party in the Falklands, that wound up being ambushed before they were a mile out of camp. All those brave lads, killed by the Argentines.” McKenzie made a tut-tut sound as he mocked Picard’s fallen friend. “All those brave, stupid lads, who forgot the most important rule of warfare: Never volunteer for anything. Is that the way you like them, Jean-Luc, brave and stupid?”

“You heartless bastard!” came a child’s voice, echoing exactly what Picard was thinking as he fought to keep from hitting McKenzie. A startled McKenzie turned around and saw an angry little princess come striding up to him. She kicked him in the closest knee, just like her father had taught her, to protect herself from child molesters. When he yelled and bent over to grab his injured knee, she lowered her head and butted him right in the forehead, sending her tiara flying. “How dare you make fun of Jean-Luc’s dead friend!” she told him, arms akimbo, dark eyes flashing like her mother’s, who managed to restrain herself only because her daughter had done what she longed to do first. “Miles O’Brien was a brave soldier who died serving his queen and country! There’s nothing stupid about a brave man dying an honorable death! And you should be ashamed for telling Jean-Luc his husband might die for being a good reporter trying to find the truth!”

McKenzie nursed his sore head with one hand and his sore knee with the other as he glared at Miral. “Young lady, I would appreciate it if you would stay out of grownup business.”

“And I would appreciate it if you get out of here! Before I kick you in the other knee!” She raised one foot to do so, sending him scrambling backward like a crab trying to avoid being stepped on. He tried appealing to the child’s mother.

“Madam, could you please control your child? You seem to have failed to teach her respect for her elders.”

“Oh, she respects her elders, all right,” Bettina told him in a barely controlled voice, she was so mad at him. “The ones who deserve her respect by being kind and considerate to others. And who don’t disrespect the dead. Now get out of my friend’s apartment! Or I’ll tell my husband the cop that you made veiled threats against John Quilleran and have him arrest you. That way if anything does happen to Q, you’ll be available for questioning.”

McKenzie knew when he was beat. He limped for the door as fast as he could, which Picard helpfully held open for him. As he passed the table with the mail on it, Isis stuck her head and one paw out and slashed at his ankle, taking care to sink her claws in deep beneath his trouser cuff. She ducked back under the table before he could do more than yell a curse at her. That was enough to set Bettina off.

“That does it! You’re going down,” she informed him as she peeled off her faux fur jacket and threw it aside, pushing up the sleeves of her sweatshirt to reveal old, faded gang tattoos on her arms. “Nobody curses in front of my daughter! I don’t care if you’re a priest, I’m going to kick your—” She hesitated, then used the Spanish word. “ _Fondeo_ all the way to the elevator!”

McKenzie couldn’t have run any faster if the devil was at his heels. Picard and his friends all watched him go, passing the elevator door and hitting the door to the stairs like a linebacker knocking an opposing player out of the way. They listened to him running down the stairs until the sound faded in the distance. Picard said, “Good riddance!” and slammed the door shut. “Ladies, I apologize for the intrusion. That miserable excuse for a priest came here to warn me to call off my husband, who’s getting too close to the truth about his past. If his past didn’t involve several innocent people too, I would be laughing my arse off. Oh, I’m sorry, Bettina. Please don’t go off on me like you did on McKenzie.”

Bettina laughed. “I don’t object to you using a prissy English slang word in front of Miral. But I do object to hearing the F word. Especially from somebody who’s supposed to know better. What kind of priest uses the F word in front of a child?”

“Let’s go heat up the tea while I tell you about Father McKenzie and the dirty business he was involved in back in 1967.” He picked up Bettina’s jacket and handed it back to her, straightening her tiara helpfully while she brushed the fake fur with her hand. Miral picked up her tiara and the cat, who purred as she snuggled against her. All of them headed for the dining area as Picard told them about the story Quilleran was pursuing.


	13. Chapter 13

“THE BAD SHEPHERD" 

CHAPTER 13 of 15

_“With the eyes of a child_

_You must come out and see_

_That your world's spinning 'round_

_And through life you will be_

_A small part_

_Of a hope_

_Of a love_

_That exists_

_In the eyes of a child you will see...”_

“Eyes of a Child”, The Moody Blues, 1969\ 

BAY RIDGE, BROOKLYN, NEW YORK

SATURDAY, MARCH 31ST, 4:30 p.m., 2012 

After a brief phone call to his editor this morning telling him about his new lead, Quilleran had checked out of the hotel in Rhineland and driven back to New York City, hoping that the Scott family was still living at the address Father Keller had given him. It was a long drive, interrupted only by rest stops to relieve himself and grab a bite to eat, usually at a gas station, once at a decent little roadside restaurant where he was able to finish writing his account of the night before in a booth in the back on his laptop, while drinking cup after cup of coffee. By the time he drove over the Verrazano Bridge, he was feeling the worse for wear.

As he got closer to the address on the old writing pad, he had time to study the neighborhood and saw that it was distinctly upper middle class, with plenty of American flags on display, as well as men and women in uniforms coming and going from the nice suburban houses. Police officers dominated one neighborhood, followed by a block of firefighters, usually chiefs or inspectors, wearing plenty of gold braid and ribbons to go with their grey hair.

He was glad he had remembered to put on a clean shirt and tie after his shower this morning. The good black blazer he had on would also make him look respectable enough to fit in here. He drove slowly as he scanned the houses, looking for the number 22-22 on 85th Street. At last he saw a red brick, two-family house, whose architecture dated back seventy years, with a small lawn and a wire gate, whose door stood open. After parking his car around a corner two blocks away, he trudged back to the address, panting a little from the warm spring weather, despite having left his coat in the car. He left his blazer unbuttoned and loosened his tie, wishing for a tall, cool drink of something alcoholic to steady his nerves before what he was sure would be an uneasy interview.

When he finally got back to the Scotts’ house, he saw a woman outside working on the small, rectangular patch of flowers on the lawn. She wore a straw hat and a long-sleeved tee shirt with a bunch of colorful balloons on the front. She was kneeling on the grass in well-worn jeans, pulling up weeds from the red tulips that were just starting to bloom on the left end. In the center were white tulips, and on the right end were blue tulips. A miniature fence made of Popsicle sticks surrounded the patch of flowers. As he entered the gate, he self-consciously straightened his tie and wiped a hand across his sweaty forehead. The woman looked up as he approached, blue eyes regarding him curiously from beneath the brim of her hat.

Quilleran cleared his throat. “Pardon me, are you Mrs. Scott?”    

“Yes, I’m Janice Scott,” she said. “May I help you?”

“Yes, Mrs. Scott, I’m—” He coughed, cleared his dry throat and tried again. “I’m John Quilleran of The Boston Globe—” He coughed again, covering his mouth with his right fist as he silently cursed the long walk in the warm weather for his dry throat.

“Goodness, you certainly sound as if you could use a drink. Why don’t you come inside and have some lemonade?” 

“Thank you,” he said hoarsely. He followed her inside, where she poured him a tall glass of lemonade from a pitcher sitting on a little table close to the front door, right by the window seat looking out on the lawn.

“I usually come inside for a break here when I’ve been gardening a while,” she explained as she handed him the glass. “The weather’s been so warm lately, all the flowers are starting to bloom early. Unfortunately, so are all the weeds. You have to be vigilant if you want to pull them up before they get big enough to choke the flowers.”

Quilleran drank his lemonade gratefully, finishing the tall glass before he was able to speak. “Thank you so much, Mrs. Scott,” he said, putting down the glass by the pitcher while pretending to brush lint off of his lapel, using the gesture to turn on the flower tape recorder. “I had a little trouble finding a place to park and it took me a while to walk back here.”

“Yes, this place is a bit out of the way, isn’t it?” She took off her hat and ran her hands through her blonde hair, which owed its color more to chemistry than Nature. “Did you say you were from Boston?” 

“I’m a reporter for The Boston Globe,” he repeated, showing her his credentials. “I’m working on a story about unwed mothers, then and now. I’m particularly interested in the Catholic Church’s way of dealing with unwed mothers and their babies. I understand you have an adopted son named David?”

“Yes, my son was adopted.” She now regarded him warily, as if wondering whether she should have let him into her house.

“You and your late husband, Montgomery Scott, were able to adopt David on the same day that he was born, back in 1967, with the help of Cardinal Spellman. I believe he was a friend of your husband’s?”

“Yes, my husband was friends with the Cardinal. He knew we were anxious to have children. But I kept having miscarriages.” Her face, still attractive in a mature way, started to show some worry lines as she looked up at him. “After my third miscarriage, Monty thought it was time for ‘a bit of divine intervention’, as he put it. So he spoke to the cardinal, who assured him that it would be no problem. My husband’s birthday was on March third, so His Eminence promised us that we would have the first baby boy born in March, at an unwed mother’s home that he was the chief sponsor of, in upstate New York.”

“Would this be Saint Ann’s Maternity Home? In Rhineland?”

“Yes, Saint Ann’s Home,” she admitted, looking anxiously outside the window, as if she was expecting somebody. “My husband wanted a boy, to carry on the family name. So His Eminence promised us that we would be notified the moment that a baby boy was born at Saint Ann’s.”

“I see,” said Quilleran, admiring the deviousness of the cardinal in arranging for his friend Admiral Marcus’ daughter to be rid of her burden the same day she bore it, by passing it on to another friend who wanted a child. Had Carol given birth to a daughter instead, would she have been allowed to keep it? At least until a couple was found to adopt it? Or would they still have pulled the same cruel trick, telling her the baby was dead and making her sign papers for a burial plot that was really a termination of her parental rights? “Tell me, Mrs. Scott, was your husband a member of the Knights of Columbus?”

“Yes, Monty was in the Knights of Columbus.” She kept looking out of the window nervously as she spoke.

“Did he attend meetings at Saint Patrick’s Cathedral? Along with Admiral Alexander Marcus, who was also a Knight of Columbus?”

She stared at him with a look of fear in her eyes. “I don’t know who that is.”

“Surely you knew who your husband’s friends were?”

“The Knights of Columbus is a fraternal organization, for Catholic men of good character. I knew some of the men in it, but not all of them. I certainly don’t know this admiral you’re talking about. I’m more familiar with the firemen Monty used to work with before he became a chief.”

“Ah, but the cardinal was a friend of both your husband and Admiral Marcus, wasn’t he?” He looked at her shrewdly, sensing her fear and reluctance to admit the truth. “So it’s possible that Chief Scott and Admiral Marcus may have known each other while the admiral was stationed in Manhattan. Or the cardinal may have introduced them to each other, since they each had a problem that the other could solve.”

“What do you mean?  What problem?” She was backing away from him as if he were threatening her, even though he hadn’t moved from in front of the window seat. But she kept looking out of the window behind him.

“Please, Mrs. Marcus,” he said as gently as he could, “I mean you no harm. I have no intention of blackmailing you or embarrassing you publically. I only want to see justice done.”

“Justice?” She stared at him wildly.

“Yes, justice for a young girl who fell in love with a boy her father didn’t approve of, at the height of the Vietnam War. She and this boy became secretly engaged at their senior prom, before he enlisted in the Navy and went to fight in Vietnam. But while he was away, she found out she was pregnant. Her father was furious; he was a prominent Navy admiral, who didn’t want his daughter’s unwed pregnancy to ruin her life, or his career. So he sent her to an unwed mother’s home recommended by his good friend, Cardinal Spellman, who also had a friend that was desperate for a child—”

“No!” She practically screamed her denial in his face. “David’s mother died in childbirth! His father died in Vietnam before they could be married! We adopted him when he was only a few hours old. We raised him together, until Monty died of emphysema a year later. But he was our son!” she sobbed. “He’ll always be my son, my boy!”

“Yes, you adopted him in good faith and raised him like he was your own. But his mother didn’t die. She was tricked into giving him up. The cardinal’s representative, Father McKenzie, was in cahoots with the Mother Superior of Saint Ann’s, to find a new home for the admiral’s daughter’s baby. So when Carol regained consciousness after the birth, Father McKenzie told her that her baby had died. He even wrapped a dead baby girl in a blue blanket to show her as proof. Poor Carol was still mourning for her baby when Mother Alice came along with papers for her to sign, saying they were for a burial plot in Saint Ann’s little cemetery for dead babies. But it was really a surrender of parental rights. New York State law says a girl of seventeen has the right to give up her baby without her parent’s consent. And Carol was only seventeen, with no one to advise her not to sign anything without reading it. Not that she would have been in any shape to read or understand anything,” he added, both sad and angry on Carol’s behalf. “Father McKenzie told you a pretty fairy tale about two lovers separated by war, but that’s all it was, a fairy tale, with a happy ending supplied by you and your husband. Did McKenzie tell that story for your benefit? Tell me, Mrs. Scott, did you know the truth about David’s mother when you adopted him? Or did your husband tell you later? On his death bed, perhaps?”

Tears were falling down Janice Scott’s face as she stared at him with her wide blue eyes. “No, no, you’re wrong, David’s mother was dead,” she insisted. “She died in childbirth. Mother Alice said so. Why would a nun lie?”

With a cynical smile, Quilleran held up his right hand and rubbed his thumb and forefingers together in the universal sign for money. “This is why. Your husband made a generous donation to Saint Ann’s that day, as a thank offering to the saint. I understand this is customary in most Catholic institutions for unwed mothers. But Mother Alice has turned what was supposed to be an act of charity into a business, where innocent babies are bought and sold like dolls in a toy store.”

“No! No! We didn’t buy David! He was adopted legally! Both his parents were dead! My husband only gave Mother Alice a check as a thank offering to Saint Ann!” Her tears were pouring down like rain as her face became a mask of grief, showing her true age with cruel clarity. Quilleran pitied her, but he pitied Carol more for the hell she had been put through all these years.

“You said yourself that your husband was desperate for a son to carry on his family name. Desperate enough to pay for the first healthy baby boy who became available, no questions asked, thanks to his good friend Cardinal Spellman. The question is, did he know that he was adopting the grandchild of a fellow Knight of Columbus? Did the cardinal arrange the whole thing himself, or did he just help the two men involved? The one who wanted a baby and the one who didn’t want his daughter’s baby? And did you know this poor girl was still living when you adopted her baby?”        

“No, no, she was dead! She was dead, I tell you!” Janice insisted, almost hysterical with denial. “I’m David’s mother! I raised him, I potty trained him, taught him to walk and talk. I sat up with him when he was sick, walked him to school when he was little. I told him about Santa Claus and the Easter Bunny, and his father Montgomery Scott, the brave fire chief who died of the emphysema he got after so many years fighting fires.”

“But did you also tell him about his real father? Lieutenant James T. Kirk, the heroic Navy officer taken prisoner by the Viet Cong, who spent eighteen months in a prisoner of war camp, until he was able to escape with his two buddies. After leading them to safety, he insisted upon going back with a squadron to rescue the other prisoners in the camp. By the time he got back to the states, he was a captain, ready to marry his high school sweetheart. But her father lied to him and told him she had died, bearing the child he never knew about.”

“No, no, he died in Vietnam,” Janice persisted in her denial, wiping at her streaming eyes with a tissue she pulled out of her pants pocket. “David’s father died in action in Vietnam. His mother died in childbirth. That’s what I told my boy when he was old enough to know he was adopted.”

“Why don’t you tell him the truth now? He’s old enough to know.” He looked at her with genuine sympathy as she wept for the child she had raised. “I know you love him, I know you were just trying to protect him. But this isn’t the Sixties anymore; nobody thinks unwed mothers are one step away from whores, and that their children are nameless bastards. I’m sure David would like to know about the people who gave him life. Every adopted child secretly yearns to know if their mothers really loved them when they were born, or if they were just glad to get rid of them. David was one of the lucky ones. His parents were genuinely in love, and would have gotten married if his mother’s father hadn’t interfered. Why don’t you tell him that and clear your conscience? I can see what a burden it’s been on you.”

Just then the door opened, revealing a tall, slender man with curly blond hair, wearing a purple sweatshirt with “Polytech Institute” printed on it over his jeans. “Mom?” he said, looking at Janice with concern. “I could hear you crying from outside. Is everything all right?”  

She only cried harder, making his handsome brow furrow with worry. Quilleran studied him closely, seeing a resemblance to his natural mother, with his curly blond hair and his blue eyes. But his profile was also similar to his natural father’s, right down to the determined chin, which he now stuck out in Quilleran’s direction when he saw him standing by the window. “Who are you?” he demanded. “And why is my mother crying? Did you do something to her?”

“No, David,” he assured him, surprising the younger man by calling him by name before they had been introduced. “My name is John Quilleran. I’m a friend of your mother’s.”

“If you’re a friend, why haven’t I ever met you?”

“I was talking about your real mother, the one who gave birth to you.”

David looked bewildered. “But she’s dead! Mom told me she died when I was born.” He looked at Janice for confirmation, but she kept on crying and wouldn’t look at him.

Quilleran looked at the weeping woman, who couldn’t meet her son’s eyes. “Janice, do you want to tell him? Or should I?” he asked her gently.

“Tell me what?” David asked impatiently, sounding just like his father.

“The true story of what happened the day you were born, David. I think you’re old enough to know. But Janice is still trying to protect you.”

“Protect me from what?” He went over to Janice and stood over her expectantly while he spoke. “Mom, if you know something I don’t know about my real mother, I’d really appreciate it if you told me. Not just for my sake, but for my kid’s too. Robin is old enough to know her father’s adopted, just like her mother was. Her mother’s parents were honest enough to tell her how they adopted Sara. But all you ever told me was a fairy story about two teenagers in love, who never got the chance to marry before I was born. Mom, I’m depending on you to tell me the truth. Please.” He looked at his adoptive mother earnestly, with his real mother’s blue eyes, sad but determined.

Janice dried her eyes with the now soggy tissue and sniffed briefly before shrugging her shoulders in resignation. “All right, David, I’ll tell you. Why don’t you two sit down? This is going to take a while.”


	14. Chapter 14

“THE BAD SHEPHERD”

CHAPTER 14 of 15 

WILLIAMSBURG, NEW YORK

SATURDAY, MARCH 31ST, 7:30 p.m., 2012

_“No, I would not give you false hope_

_On this strange and mournful day_

_But the mother and child reunion_

_Is only a motion away...”_

“Mother and Child Reunion” by Paul Simon, 1972

Captain Kirk and his wife, Doctor Carol Marcus, arrived at Peter Luger’s Steakhouse at 7:30 p.m. and were seated in a private booth at the back. The restaurant was a nice place with a pleasant atmosphere, frequented by tourists as well as families, not unlike the one where Kirk’s mother used to work when he was young. Once seated, they ordered coffee and let the waiter know that they were expecting two other people. He left extra menus at the two unoccupied seats in the booth and asked if they were ready to order yet.

“No, thank you, not yet,” Kirk told him. The waiter nodded and left. Kirk sipped his black coffee while Doctor Marcus put low-fat milk into hers and reached for the sugar. They tried to act casual, but neither of them could help glancing up from time to time at the entrance to the restaurant. They kept checking their wristwatches too.

Doctor Marcus finally broke the silence. “Who do you suppose it is?”

“Damned if I know, Carol.” He stared at the entrance across the wide expanse of tables, most of them occupied by the evening dining crowd. ”All he said was that he was bringing someone who could tell us what happened to our son, after he was taken from you.” The unexpected phone call from Quilleran had surprised them both earlier that evening, just as they had both arrived home at the same time, a rare occurrence for them, given their busy schedules. Just as they were discussing what to have for dinner, the captain’s cell phone had rung. He had answered it and found Quilleran at the other end.

The reporter had sounded excited as he spoke to the captain. “Jim, it’s me, John Quilleran! I need to see you and Carol ASAP!”

“Why? What’s happened?” asked the captain.

“I found out that your son is not dead!” He briefly explained to a stunned Captain Kirk how a cruel trick was played on a young unwed mother forty-five years ago. He concluded with “I found someone who can tell us what happened to your son, after he was taken from his mother.”

“You have? Where?”

“In Bay Ridge, of all places! I’d like us to meet on neutral ground, since my source is kind of nervous. Do you know where Peter Luger’s is?”

“Yes, but I haven’t been there for a while. Can you text me the directions?”

“All right, but please try to get there before 8:00 p.m. It gets crowded early. Find us a table in the back for four and don’t order anything but drinks until we get there. Excuse me, coffee. My source doesn’t drink, either.”

“All right, we’ll see you at Peter Luger’s by eight.” After ending the call, he told his wife that they were eating out tonight, courtesy of Q. When he told her what the reporter had told him, she became as excited as he was. After she had freshened up a bit, they went downstairs to where they usually parked their car. Happily it was still there, and there was nobody else’s car blocking it. So they got in and drove to Williamsburg after Kirk had checked the directions in the text Quilleran had sent him. Their good luck lasted till they got to Williamsburg, where they were able to find parking only a block from the famous steakhouse.

Now, as Kirk poured himself a second cup of coffee while his wife nursed her first cup, they kept watching the door as the hands on their watches crept closer and closer to 8:00 p.m. Just as the little hands hit the eight and the big hands hit the twelve on their respective timepieces, Quilleran walked into the restaurant, accompanied by a tall, slender blond man in his forties. He wore a brown sports coat over his khaki slacks, and a red tie with his white shirt. He looked very nervous, as well as very familiar to both the captain and his scientist wife.

“Ah, there they are!” said Quilleran as he spotted them. He took the other man by the arm and led him to the booth in the back. “Jim, Carol, good to see you. Glad you could make it,” he told them cheerfully. “David, would you please introduce yourself?”

Both of them sat up straighter when he said “David”. Both of them stared at the younger man and saw that he had Carol’s hair and eyes, and Jim’s profile. And when he spoke, he sounded like a younger version of Jim.

“My name is David Scott,” he told them, shyly and uncertainly. “I was born on March 13th, 1967, at Saint Ann’s Maternity Home. My mother was an unmarried seventeen-year-old girl named Carol Marcus. I was always told that she had died in childbirth.” He stared at Carol with eyes as blue as hers, filled with curiosity and hope and a trace of fear. “Are you my mother?”

Tears filled her own blue eyes as she sat staring at the son she thought she had lost. “Yes, I’m Carol Marcus,” she managed to say in a quavering voice. “When I was sixteen, I fell in love with a boy who went to Vietnam with the Navy. He gave me his ring at our senior prom and promised me we would be married when he came home. But after he’d gone, I found out I was pregnant—”   She choked on a sob, closing her eyes so the tears could flow freely. Her husband held her hand while Quilleran hastily pushed David into the booth, into the closest vacant seat, which was right next to the captain. Quilleran sat down next to Carol on the other side, pulled out a clean pocket hankie and gave it to her. After wiping her face and blotting her eyes, she continued.

“When my father found out, he beat me and cursed me. He called me a disgrace to the family, and the boy I loved a penniless nobody who would never amount to anything. Then he shipped me off to Saint Ann’s Home before I began to show...” She told him the rest of her story while Quilleran went to the bar for a drink to give them some privacy. By the time he got back with his scotch and soda, Doctor Marcus was introducing her son to her husband. “This is your father, Captain James T. Kirk.”

“Sir, I was told that you had died too,” David said, looking awestruck at the older man.

“Reports of my death were greatly exaggerated,” Kirk told him with a smile. He then proceeded to tell his side of the story. The waiter had to replace the coffee pot and bring an extra cup while Quilleran nursed his drink. When Kirk was done, everyone was ready to order. The waiter, who’d been hovering anxiously nearby, was glad to finally take their orders: steaks for the men, lamb chops for the lady, baked potatoes, green beans, tomato salad and cheesecake for dessert. Quilleran took copious notes, with the Kirks’ permission. When the cheesecake was served with another pot of coffee, David took out his wallet to show his parents photos of his own family.

“This is my wife, Sara.” He showed them a picture of an auburn-haired woman with dark eyes and a serious face, which was transformed by a smile in the next photo, which showed her and David on their wedding day. Then came a photo of Sara pregnant, wearing a green maternity dress, holding up a pink sock in one hand and a blue sock in the other. The next photo showed her in bed holding a baby girl, whose reddish-blonde curls were adorned with an elastic headband with a pink bow on top. “That’s our daughter Robin.” He flipped through a series of photos showing her growing up till he reached the most recent one, taken on her tenth birthday. She looked just like her mother, with long, curly hair that was more golden than red. She was in the backyard of the two-family house David and his family shared with Janice, on her knees hugging a big, furry dog who looked half Saint Bernard and half sheepdog. “That’s Robin and Chai, the dog her grandfather gave her for last year’s birthday, when he was just a puppy. I told him to get Robin a little dog, if he insisted on giving her one, but he took her to a shelter and let her pick the cutest dog they had, even though they warned him how big it was liable to get. That’s Leonard Barrett for you, so logical and sensible most of the time, but completely senseless when it comes to his granddaughter.”

“Wait a minute! Did you say Leonard Barrett?” Kirk asked.

“Yes, Leonard Barrett, my wife’s father. Do you know him?”

“I should hope so, after going through basic training together and spending eighteen months in that Vietnamese hellhole together! Good old Lenny Barrett, the chess champion of our unit, who used to do crossword puzzles with a pen and never got a word wrong! I spoke to him on the phone only a week ago, when we arranged a get-together for Easter. He told me he had an adopted daughter who was married, but I never dreamed she was married to you!”

All of them marveled at the coincidence, none more so than Quilleran, who was on his second scotch and soda but still cold sober. There were just so many coincidences in this story; Sister Edith Keeler, Kirk’s first wife, working at Saint John the Beloved Disciple Church where Jean-Luc volunteered; Kirk’s old war buddies, Leonard Barrett and Doctor Dean Kelly, both involved in stories that Quilleran was working on; Carol and Kirk’s lost son married to Leonard Barrett’s adopted daughter; Carol’s father and David’s adoptive father both members of the same chapter of the Knights of Columbus, both befriended by Cardinal Spellman. While he was ruminating on all of this, his cell phone rang. He reached into his blazer for it and saw a text from Roberta, to whom he had left instructions to look up the backgrounds of Father McKenzie, Mother Alice, and Doctor Felix. What he saw made his jaw clench.

Carol, who had been admiring a picture of her granddaughter in her First Communion dress, happened to look up at that moment and saw his grim expression across the table. “Q, is something wrong?”

“Yes, I just got a text from my assistant. I’m sorry, but I have to go.” He finished his drink, grabbed the check and slid out of the booth. “I’m afraid the story doesn’t end here. Your family just had their happy ending, but it’s going to be a very unhappy ending for Mother Alice when I get back to Rhineland. And Father McKenzie.” Roberta’s text had included some very personal information about that pestilent priest, as well as the mercenary nun he was in cahoots with. He feared for Sister Annika’s safety, as well as Father Liam’s, once the shit hit the fan. He left Jim, Carol and David to enjoy the rest of their reunion on their own while he paid the check with the credit card provided by his newspaper.

As he walked out of the restaurant, he was tempted to just get in his car and drive all night to Rhineland, but he knew that was too risky, between the state of mind he was in—mad as hell—and the two drinks he’d had. He might drive recklessly and get arrested for Driving While Intoxicated. When he got to his car, he sat inside with the overhead light on and used his cell phone to find a place where he could spend the night. It showed him all the hotels and motels nearby. He picked the closest one, grabbed his duffel bag, got out and hailed a cab. When he got to the hotel, he schlepped his bag to the front desk and got a room on the ground floor, so he could leave quickly in the morning.

Once he was settled in, he called his husband to let him know he’d be delayed a day getting back, and was treated to an account of Father McKenzie’s visit. He got a good laugh hearing how McKenzie was routed by an angry little princess and her mother, as well as Isis’ parting gesture. But it made him madder than before to hear how McKenzie had threatened him and how he had mocked Jean-Luc’s dead friend. He stayed on his cell phone a good long while talking to his husband, who assured him he wasn’t that upset. When he finally ended the call, he had to plug in his cell phone to recharge it. He then took a quick shower and spent some time on his laptop, double-checking Roberta’s research and discovering new details of his own, before he went to bed, his mind going over and over all the details of this story as he wondered how it would end, before he fell asleep.                                                                            


	15. Chapter 15

“THE BAD SHEPHERD”

CHAPTER 15 of 15

RHINELAND, NEW YORK

SUNDAY, APRIL 1ST, 6:05 P.M., 2012

_“Break on through to the other side...”_

“Break on Through” by The Doors, 1967

When Quilleran arrived in Rhineland, the first place he went was to the local police station. There he had a long conversation with the chief of police, Robert Giotto, a handsome man in his sixties with chiseled features and gray hair, who gave him wicked thoughts, which he suppressed quickly when he remembered the distinguished gentleman waiting for him at home. After looking over Quilleran’s notes and the pictures he’d taken of the little headstone and Carol Marcus’s file, they both decided that a visit to Saint Ann’s Maternity Home was in order.

“I never liked Mother Alice,” Chief Giotto admitted in his deep voice. “Everybody in town thinks she’s a saint for taking in these poor girls. But I saw right through her, the first time we found a pregnant girl who’d run away from the home trying to hitchhike out of town. It was 1962; I was just a rookie cop then. When my partner and I took the girl back to Saint Ann’s over her protests, we thought we were doing the right thing. She kept telling us what an awful place it was and how terrible Mother Alice was. Of course we didn’t believe her. When we got there, we had to drag the poor girl out of the squad car. She was crying, dragging her feet, begging us not to take her back. But we knew our duty, so we took her straight to Mother Alice’s office.

“She was very gracious and kind, and thanked us for bringing back this poor, wayward girl with a history of lying and rebellion. The girl denied being a liar or a rebel and kept begging us not to leave her. To this day, I still remember that poor kid clinging to my arm crying “Don’t leave me with her! Please don’t leave me with her!” I pried her fingers off as gently as possible while telling her not to worry, she was safer here than she would have been out on the road alone. After the door closed behind us, my partner and I had taken only a few steps when we heard a scream coming from behind the office door. We both froze and looked back at the door. From inside we could hear sobbing and what sounded like a whip lashing, over and over again. We looked at each other and I wondered if we had done the right thing after all. I was all for going back in there and seeing what she was doing to that poor girl, but my partner, who was older and a more devout Catholic, told me that the nuns of Saint Ann’s had the right to discipline these girls, and it wouldn’t look good if we interfered with the way Mother Alice ran the home. So we left, as quick as we could.

“The only other times I saw Mother Alice was at fundraisers for the home or the policeman’s ball or some other worthy charity. She was always gracious and kind, and usually accompanied by a passel of nuns, as well as a group of pregnant girls who made up the home’s school choir. Their singing was beautiful, but they were never allowed to mingle with the guests. After they sang, the nuns always escorted them back to the home’s school bus. They weren’t even allowed to eat the food at the event, or drink as much as a glass of soda. I noticed that the girls always seemed shy or fearful of being out in public, and that they always agreed with Mother Alice and the other nuns, unlike other teenagers who always seem to disagree with their elders. People would admire their modesty and praise the nuns for teaching them such good manners, but it made me wonder just how strict the discipline was at the home, if the sounds I heard behind that office door were a clue to just how bad it was for the girls there.”

“Very bad,” Quilleran said. He told him about the Quiet Room and how the runaway girls who left the grounds were beaten with whips called disciplines that left no scars. Chief Giotto’s jaw clenched at the thought of pregnant girls being beaten, even with whips that left no scars. He also found it suspicious that the home had barred gates on the windows, as well as an all-female security force that acted more like prison guards. But what really got him mad was when Quilleran told him about the letters from the girls’ boyfriends being intercepted and burned.

“That does it! I’m going to the judge’s house and have him sign an emergency warrant for Mother’s arrest. It’s time we brought her in for questioning on some of these things you told me about.”

“Before you go, could you tell me what happened to the boy who tried to kill Father Keller?”

“I thought you’d never ask.” A smile came to Giotto’s rugged face. “When they got him to the station, we gave him a quarter for his one phone call, on the pay phone in the lobby. After he described the trouble he was in, me and the cops who’d brought him in could hear the click on the other end as the person he called hung up on him. The kid looked like he was going to cry. But then he pulled himself together, put his brave face on and turned to us. He said, ‘I’ll tell you everything. I’m not going to jail for this creep, after all the promises he made me. At least I won’t be going to jail alone.’ And he told us all about the priest who seduced him and made him big promises, in return for coming to this little town and taking out a nosy reporter who was getting too close to the truth about the priest’s past, especially the brief time he was here helping Father Liam out with Sunday mass at Saint Ann’s.”

“Is this priest named Father Malcolm McKenzie? And did he tell the boy he wouldn’t be upset if he also took out Father Liam, if he got in the way?”

“Got it in one,” said Giotto with a grin. “Yeah, young Aaron ‘Noggin’ Eisenhower really spilled his guts. Told us more than we wanted to know about pedophiliac priests and how they manipulate the young boys they seduce. We’ve already applied for an arrest warrant for McKenzie. Maybe I’ll be lucky and find it ready when I get to Judge Tremayne’s house. He won’t be pleased to learn about another Catholic cleric gone wrong, especially Mother Alice. She’s brought so much income to this little town, you see. But the law is the law, and Judge Tremayne thinks no one is above the law, even those who serve the Catholic Church.”

“Good! While you’re at the judge’s, I’ll be at Saint Ann’s. I have a friend there who may be in danger for providing me with all this information.” He had been careful not to mention Sister Annika while he was making his case to the chief.

“I know about reporters and their sources. Go ahead and see to your friend. If Mike Smalls gives you any trouble, tell him his old boss said it was okay to admit you after visiting hours.”  

“Thanks, Chief. Try to get there as soon as you can, will you? I don’t know how much trouble my friend is in, or how angry Mother will be when she sees me again.”

“Yeah, that’s one lady I definitely don’t want mad at me. She puts on a good motherly act, but underneath she’s as heartless as one of those androids in the Terminator movies.”

“I couldn’t agree more.” He left hastily, hoping that Sister Annika had been able to get Lorena out.

******** 

When he got to Saint Ann’s, it was already dark outside. “Oh, hi there!” said Mike Smalls, the gatekeeper. “Are you back for another interview? Sorry, but visiting hours are only from 8:00 a.m. to 6:00 p.m.”

“This is an emergency, Mike,” Quilleran told him from behind the wheel of his car. “Your old boss, Chief Giotto, wants me to tell you that it’s all right to admit me after visiting hours.” 

“Okay, but I’m still gonna call Giotto and tell him you’re here.”

“Don’t bother; he’s at the judge’s house, getting an arrest warrant for Mother Alice. And if you call to warn her after I’ve gone in, I’m pretty sure he’ll arrest you too for being an accessory to her crimes.”

“But what has she done?” Smalls asked, looking puzzled.

“She sells babies,” Quilleran told him bluntly. “Now let me in!”

A stunned Smalls pressed the gate button automatically. Quilleran drove through slowly, but as soon as he passed the gate he stepped on the gas and drove as fast as he could to the parking lot in front of the home. He jumped out of the car, slammed the door and ran for the front door. He rang the bell, then knocked loudly. He made such a commotion that the door was soon opened by a hatchet-faced nun, who demanded to know what he was doing here so late.

“Sorry, Sister, but I’ve got to see Mother Superior or her assistant. Right now!” He elbowed his way past the indignant nun and ran for the office, only to find it locked. After banging on the door unsuccessfully, he ran into the rec room, where he found a group of pregnant girls in pajamas or sleepshirts, watching TV, playing board games, or doing their homework. There were also a few nuns, sewing or knitting, and a couple of security guards holding up the walls.

“Where’s Mother Alice?” he said loudly. “Where’s Sister Annika? I need to speak to one or the other, right away!”

The girls stared at him fearfully; the nuns looked angry and indignant, but they also seemed scared. “Where is Mother Alice?  Where is Sister Annika?” he repeated, looking from one face to another, seeing only fear on the girls’ faces, anger and indignation mixed with fear on the nuns’. “I need to speak to them! Please tell me where they are!”

“Young man, please leave before we call the police!” said an elderly nun. 

“The police are already on their way! If you want to control the damage, you’ll let me speak to your mother superior right now!”

There was quite a hubbub as girls and nuns all began talking at once. Things got so confusing that he ran out of the room, determined to find Mother Alice or Sister Annika himself. As he was running toward the back door, he heard a young girl’s voice call to him from the shadows. “Hey, mister!” He stopped, looked and saw a tall, red-haired girl hiding in a dark alcove. She wore a green bathrobe over her white sleepshirt and was so pregnant she looked like she was smuggling a basketball beneath her clothes.

“I know where Sister Annie is,” she whispered. “Mother Alice locked her in the Quiet Room.”

“Why?” he panted, still catching his breath.

“She was mad at her for helping one of the girls escape. Some of us girls were in the office area at the time, and we heard her through the door yelling at Sister Annie. The other nuns chased us away, but I hid behind the drapes and waited till I heard the door open. When it did, I peeked out and saw those two goons, Beatrice and Ursula, holding Sister Annie up between them. She looked terrible; her face was all bruised, her veil was crooked, and she was all hunched over like she was in pain. Mother Alice was right behind them, holding her whip, the one she uses on the girls who run away if they make it off the grounds. I knew that she had been beating Sister Annie with it.” There were tears in the girl’s eyes as she told him this in an anguished whisper.

Quilleran felt sick at heart. Poor Annika had paid dearly for helping Lorena and Alfredo to elope. But had she told Alice about helping him as well? “Take me to the Quiet Room!” he told the tall redhead. “I don’t have time to look for it, the police will be here any minute with an arrest warrant for Mother Alice. I need to know exactly what Annie told her.”

The girl nodded. “I’ll take you. Sister Annie is the only other nun here who treats us girls like we’re human, not like criminals, just because we fell in love with the wrong boy...” She pressed a hand to her swollen belly and sobbed briefly, then got a hold of herself. “Yes, I’ll take you there. I owe her for calling my Aunt Roxie and telling her where I am. She’s coming to get me tomorrow, take me away from this dreadful place.”

“Good for you. Now please take me to the Quiet Room.” She nodded and beckoned him to follow her. He did, through a dark corridor and up a staircase past the second floor where the girl’s dorm was located, to the third floor and down another corridor, dimly lit and carpeted in a dark red that looked like dried blood. She led him right to a recess, where she ducked inside. He followed her and found her standing outside a big, black wooden door, with a hatched window at the top.

“She’s in there,” she told him, still whispering fearfully.

“Thank you for bringing me here. What’s your name?”

“Lolita,” she said with a shy smile.

“Okay, Lolita, now I want you to stand outside in the corridor and let me know if anyone is coming. If you see someone heading this way, I want you to divert them. Start a conversation, start an argument, but talk loudly so that I’ll be able to hear you. Try to delay them as long as possible so that I can help Sister Annie escape.”

“How’re you gonna do that?”

“I have my ways,” he said mysteriously. “Now go out in the corridor and stand guard. Remember, if you see anyone coming, speak loudly and delay them for as long as you can.”

“Okay, got it!” Lolita slipped past him and took up her position in the corridor, looking both ways to see whether anyone was coming.

Quilleran tried the window at the top of the door and found it swung open easily. He saw a room that was dimly lit and covered with dark brown padding all over the walls and floor. But he didn’t see Sister Annika. So he called to her. “Annika? Sister Annika, are you in there? It’s me, John Quilleran.”

He heard a moan and caught a glimpse of movement to the left. He heard Annika’s voice saying, “Mister Quilleran?”

“Yes, Annika! It’s me! Are you all right?”

She moaned again. “I’m alive, but I can hardly move. She knows, Mr. Quilleran. She knows about Lorena and Alfredo.”

“Does she know about me too?”

“No, I didn’t give you away. Even when she beat me—” She let out a pain-filled moan that made his heart ache.

“I’m going to get you out of there,” he told her.

“How?” she asked. But he was already on his knees before the lock, grateful to be wearing his comfy black slacks, examining it as he reached inside his black blazer. The white turtleneck he wore beneath it felt damp with sweat, from both exertion and fear. He pulled out a black leatherette case and unzipped it, opening it to reveal a set of lock picks. There had been times in his career when he was forced to go through locked doors to get information. At first he had hired a burglar to pick locks for him, until he decided to take lock-picking lessons from the burglar, to keep from involving another person in his nefarious activities. Besides, it was a lot easier on his budget, not to mention his conscience, not having to submit an expense report listing the services of a professional locksmith as one of his expenses. After going through the lock picks, he picked out three of the biggest ones. He put down the case, stuck two of the picks up his left sleeve, then used the one he was holding in his right hand to probe the lock.

The first pick didn’t work, so he put it aside and pulled the second one out of his left sleeve. While he was probing the lock with it, he heard Lolita say loudly, “Oh, Ms. Beatrice!” He froze, then kept on working as she said, “Can you tell me where Mother Alice is? I have a problem.”

“Mother’s got no time for your problems, kid,” he heard Beatrice’s harsh voice say. “I’m going to have a problem if I don’t bring her who’s inside that room. Now step aside.”

 “But why, Ms. Beatrice?” Lolita continued to speak loudly for Quilleran’s benefit. “I know you’ve got Sister Annie in there. I saw you and your sister bringing her here. What has she done? Why is Mother Alice punishing her?" 

“That’s for us to know, kid. Now step aside!” He heard Lolita gasp and hastily discarded the unsuccessful lock pick for the final one up his sleeve. He stuck it into the lock, turned it, and heard the tumblers click as the lock yielded. But before he could open the door, he felt someone yoke him, wrapping strong arms around his neck and pulling him backwards.

“Not you again!” he heard Beatrice say angrily. “Mother told me to keep an eye out for you. She thinks you and Annie were in cahoots with that girl who got away. Well, now you can explain yourself in person.” She hauled him to his feet. She was nearly as tall as he was, and just as strong, so it was easy for her. But before she could drag him out into the corridor, he used both elbows to jab her, hard enough to loosen her hold. He spun around, grabbed her by the shoulders and shoved her out of the alcove into the corridor. She slammed into the opposite wall with a loud thud. Before she could recover, he ran toward her, putting both hands together in a hammer fist, which he used to smack her upside the head on either side.

“I’ve never hit a woman before,” he told her. “But for you, I’ll make an exception.” He then punched her in the stomach, knocking all the air out of her and most of the fight. She sank to the floor, moaning in pain. He saw Lolita lying on her left side and helped her up. “Did she hurt you?”

“No, she just shoved me aside. I hope it didn’t hurt the baby.” She laid her hands on her belly and looked worried.

“I’m sure the baby’s fine. Here, take my belt and tie this woman up.” He removed the belt from his pants’ loops and gave it to her. “I’m going to get Sister Annie out.” He went back to the Quiet Room while she bound Beatrice’s wrists together.

He turned the knob on the black door and it opened before him. He looked inside and saw Sister Annika lying face down in a corner on the left. “Annika!” He ran to her, turned her over and saw bruises on her face, her blonde hair straggling out of her veil. “Did she do this to you?”

“Yes,” she said weakly.

“How did she find out about Lorena?”

“Mike Smalls gave us away. He didn’t mean to, he just made a remark about us being at the gate with the UPS man on the same day that Lorena disappeared.” She blinked up at him from red-rimmed eyes that looked like she had been crying for hours. “He thought that was when she slipped past him, while I was arguing with Alfredo about the price of one of the boxes. But he also mentioned Sister Kessandra being there, and Mother knows that Kes would never leave the infirmary without a good reason. About noon, I was summoned to her office. When I got there, the Durossi sisters were standing on either side of the door. They slammed it shut behind me and stood in front of it while she started berating me, demanding to know where Lorena Perez was. When I wouldn’t tell her anything, she slapped me around. Then she started beating me with the discipline. I still wouldn’t talk, so she had the Durossi sisters drag me here and continued questioning me while she beat me. I had to tell her something to make her stop. So I gave up Sister Kes, to keep from betraying you.”

Quilleran got so mad, he felt like running outside to look for Mother Alice so he could slap her around too. He got himself under control, picked up Annika and carried her outside. When he got to the corridor, he found Lolita standing guard over a now conscious Beatrice, who was glaring at her as she sat against the wall with her hands tied together at the wrists with his belt.

“Okay, ladies, here’s the plan,” he announced. “Lolita, you help Annika to stand up.” He put her gently on her feet; the pregnant girl went over and put Annika’s left arm over her shoulders. The nun sagged against her gratefully. “Beatrice, you help me find Mother Alice.”

“The hell I will!”

“The hell you won’t!” he told her, with fire in his eyes. “If you don’t help me find her before the cops get here, I’ll throw you down the stairs and tell them you tripped while you were running from me. What’s it going to be?”

She sighed. “Okay, you got me. Mother’s in the infirmary with Ursula. She went to find Sister Kes and question her about her part in the disappearance of Lorena Perez.”

“How long ago was this?”  

“Maybe a couple of hours ago. Sister Kes was helping Doctor Felix examine a girl who was having premature contractions. They were trying to stop her from miscarrying. Mother would never let a baby come to harm, so she decided to wait until they were finished. While we were waiting, she sent me here to get Sister Annie so she could question them together.”

“Well, now you can bring her Sister Annie and me, so she’ll have both troublemakers.” He hauled her to her feet, none too gently, and made her walk alongside him. “Let’s go, Beatrice. Take us straight to the infirmary by the shortest route. If you try to get cute and take the long way, I’ll know, because Lolita or Annie will tell me. Won’t you?” He looked at the girl and the nun, who both nodded. “Come on, let’s go! And don’t even think of yelling a warning to your sister or to Mother, if you don’t want me to put your lights out. Like I said, I’ve never hit a woman before, but I’ve never had a reason to before. Now which way?”

“This way,” she grumbled, going to the right, toward the stairs they had come up. He kept a tight hold on her as they went, while Lolita kept Sister Annika propped up as they followed.

********

On their way to the infirmary, he paused by a window to take Beatrice’s taser from her belt and power it up. Then he pulled a curtain cord from one of the drapes and asked Lolita to hold the taser and use it on Beatrice if she made a move. He untied the belt from her wrists and used the curtain cord to tie her hands behind her back. He put his belt back on, feeling more secure this way. The last thing he wanted was for his pants to fall down while he confronted Mother Alice, or for Beatrice to use her bound hands to grab whatever was in front of her to use as a weapon. Being a veteran himself, he knew you could do more with your hands tied in front than you could with them tied behind you. He reclaimed the taser from Lolita before they went on.

As they approached the infirmary, they heard muffled sounds, which soon became loud voices. Over them could be heard a woman screaming. He checked the taser to make sure it was on Stun, then told Lolita and Annika to stay behind him. He put Beatrice in front of him, using her as a human shield while making it appear that she was leading him. “Okay, Beatrice,” he muttered. “Walk in there looking confident and tell Mother Alice you found me breaking Annie out. Then just stand there and let me do the talking.”

“Okay,” she said, looking less than happy about the situation since she wasn’t in control of it. Taking a deep breath, she led them into the infirmary, where they found Doctor Felix up against a wall between two medical supply cabinets, with Ursula keeping him pinned there. She towered over the smaller man like an Amazon, using her left arm to keep him up against the wall as she leaned against him, looking bored as he ranted and raved and struggled against her.

“Leave her alone, Alice!” the doctor was yelling. “Leave her alone! It was my idea to get Lorena out! It was my idea, I tell you!”

About four feet to their right, they saw Mother Alice crouching over a figure lying on the floor. She was ignoring the doctor as she continued to question the limp figure at her feet. “Tell me the truth, Kes. How did you help Lorena escape?”

“I didn’t. I swear I didn’t, Mother.” The little nun lying at her feet whimpered as she struggled to keep her head above her folded arms so she could speak.

“I know you did. So tell me how. Tell me!” She raised her right arm and brought the whip down across Kes’ back. The little nun screamed as her already sore back was struck yet again. Even through her clothes, the whip still hurt. God only knew how many times she had already been struck. Quilleran could see that she was close to the breaking point; her pale, tear-stained face, the way that her arms trembled as she fought to keep her head up, her voice hoarse from screaming.

 _*This has to stop. It has to stop now!*_ He nudged Beatrice and whispered in her ear. “Let her know we’re here. Don’t try anything or I’ll use your own taser on you.”

Beatrice glared at him, then turned her head to the right and called out, “Mother, I’ve brought Sister Annie. And that reporter too. I found him breaking her out.”

“Good girl, Beatrice. Keep them on ice while I continue to question Kes.” Alice didn’t bother to turn around as she wielded the whip once more. Before she could bring it down, Quilleran shoved Beatrice off to one side, away from her sister, took two strides forward and shoved the taser into Mother Alice’s back. There was an electric crackle; Alice screamed in pain. She fell to the floor, still clutching the whip. Quilleran bent over and pressed the taser to her right wrist. She screamed again as pain spasms made her fingers flutter, finally releasing her hold on the whip. He grabbed it and tossed it to Lolita, who used it to keep Ursula at bay as she lunged forward. “I wouldn’t!” he told her, threatening her with the taser. “Put your hands up, Ursula. Keep them up or you’ll get more of the same.” She complied, looking daggers at him as he took her own taser from her belt, while the doctor slipped past her. After putting the taser on Stun, he gave it to Lolita. “Now get up against that wall. That’s right, the same one you had the doctor pinned against. Keep that taser up, Lolita. Don’t take your eyes off her. If she makes a move, tase her. Annie, sit down.” She dropped into the chair at the doctor’s desk on the right, sighing with relief. “Doctor, get over there and see to Kes.”

The doctor rushed over and knelt beside his nurse. “Oh, Kes, I’m so sorry. I’m so sorry, sweetie, I would’ve taken the beating for you if I could’ve.” He wept over her as he gathered her into his arms.

Meanwhile, Quilleran found a roll of medical gauze and used it to bind Alice’s wrists behind her back as she lay moaning in pain, still twitching from the shocks, nerve endings reacting to the overstimulation. Quilleran hoped she was in as much pain as Kes, at least. He would have liked to use the taser on her until she was in as much pain as Kes and Annie combined. But he reminded himself that she had to be able to answer questions when Chief Giotto took her back to the station. “Okay, Alice,” he told her as he knelt beside her, “your reign of terror is over. The police are on their way here with a warrant for your arrest. They have a lot of questions about the baby selling racket you’ve got going here. I’ve got a few questions too. Like how did you know I was coming here in time to cover the real name on that little tombstone?” She just lay there moaning pitifully, her graying blonde hair protruding from beneath her veil. “How about this one; were you acting with Father McKenzie to have me killed by that lost boy? Along with poor Father Keller, if he got in the way?”

She finally turned her head to one side to look up at him. “No,” she said hoarsely, “I had nothing to do with that. McKenzie must have a private vendetta with you.”

“He certainly does. After all, I’m married to a former priest.” He took delight in seeing how he shocked her. “I’m also a crusading reporter who likes to turn over rocks to expose the creepy creatures hiding beneath them. And you’re one of the creepiest creatures I’ve ever uncovered. By the way, Carol and her husband Jim send their regards, along with their son David’s.” He smirked as he saw that he had shocked her again. “That’s right, Carol and Jim finally met again and got married. I found their now grown son and introduced him to them.”

He sat down on the floor to make himself more comfortable. Wrapping his arms around his knees, he spoke to her casually as he seemed to go off on a tangent. “Did I ever tell you about my assistant, Roberta Lincoln? She’s a whiz on the computer, and an expert on doing background checks. While I was on my quest for the truth about Carol’s son, I had her do one on your associate Father McKenzie, and the good doctor there, as well as on you. She found out some pretty interesting things about you, Mother Alice, formerly known as Alice Marie Kelly, a nice Irish Catholic girl from the Lower East Side, when it was still mostly Irish and Italian.

“Poor Alice, you made the mistake of falling in love with the wrong boy when you were sixteen, just like so many of your girls here at Saint Ann’s. He up and left you flat when you told him you were pregnant. Ran off and joined the Army, which was still fighting in the Pacific at the time. You had to take care of your little problem by yourself. So you made discreet inquiries at school, until one of the older girls gave you the name and number of a doctor who could help you solve your problem. Isn’t that right, Doctor Phillip Felix?” He looked at Doctor Felix, who was rubbing ointment on Kes’ sore back as she lay on the examining table with her blouse off, her short, blonde hair released from its veil and falling over her tear-stained face. “Or should I say, Doctor Felix Phillips, GYN-OB by day, abortionist by night?”  

He sighed. “Times were tough back then. There was a war on and many doctors did business after hours to earn extra cash. Most of my colleagues were making big money patching up gangsters who got shot by the cops, or by one another during one of the many gang wars on the Lower East Side. But I wanted to do some good in the world. I couldn’t enlist because of my height and poor eyesight, so I performed abortions on unmarried girls as an act of mercy, to keep them from being disgraced. And on married women who already had one too many mouths to feed, and nothing but their absent husband’s Army pay to feed them on.”

“When did Alice Kelly come to you with her little problem?”

“In April of 1944. She was young and scared, afraid of being beaten by her devout Catholic father if he found out. So I took care of it for her.”

“But that wasn’t the last time you saw Alice, was it?”

“No, a year later I got another call from her. This time it was a friend of hers who was knocked up. She asked me if I could help her before her folks found out.”

“Was this friend’s name Sally Ann Gallager?”

“Yes, her name was Sally Ann Gallager. She was also young and scared, afraid of what would happen if her folks found out. I kept telling her that everything would be all right, that she would just go to sleep and wake up feeling a little sore. She’d have to wear a Kotex pad for a few days and avoid strenuous activity, but she would be fine. Then something went wrong—” The doctor’s face contorted with grief as tears filled his eyes behind his thick-lensed glasses.                  

“Yes, something went wrong and little Sally never woke up. What was it, Doctor? Did you give her too much anesthesia? Did you cut too deep? Or was she just too frail to survive the procedure? Was it simply a case of ‘The operation was a success, but the patient died’? I have friends in the medical profession who told me that even when you do a procedure to textbook perfection, there’s still a chance that the patient won’t survive. Sally didn’t, so you and Alice both arranged for you to skip town while she arranged for the police to find her friend’s remains.”

“It was her idea,” the doctor said, giving Alice a hard look as she laid on the floor at Quilleran’s feet, still recovering from the shocks he’d given her. “At first she cried over her dead friend and threatened to turn me over to the cops. When I reminded her that she had also been my patient and threatened to tell it to the cops, she changed her tune. She gave me all the money in Sally’s purse and an hour’s head start before she called the cops. So I packed up all my worldly possessions, which weren’t much, took all the money I had out of my mattress, ‘cause I didn’t trust banks, having lived through the Depression, and I skipped town.”

“You got as far as Philadelphia, where you changed your name, got a fake medical license in that name, and a job at Saint Anthony’s Hospital. But you couldn’t forget your past, no matter how well you covered it up. So you took up drinking, to help you forget.”

“I never forgot Sally. Neither did Alice, it seems. When she found out where I was working, about seven years later, she came to see me in her nun’s habit and offered me a chance to atone for my past, by working at her new home for unwed mothers, which needed a doctor. It took two more years for the project to get off the ground, but she really sold it, to every Catholic charity and every wealthy Catholic looking for a good cause to invest in.”

“She had help too, didn’t she? A very prominent Prince of the Church, I understand.”

“Yes, Cardinal Spellman. He was very pleased to see her take the veil and dedicate herself to helping all those poor, unfortunate girls who found themselves in the same embarrassing situation as her late friend. After all, Alice was his goddaughter.”

“What a coincidence!” Quilleran exclaimed. “This whole story is just filled with coincidences. Don’t you think so, Alice?” He smiled down at her, she glared up at him.

Chief Giotto chose that moment to enter the infirmary, accompanied by two uniformed cops. “There you are, Quilleran,” he said. “I’ve been looking all over for you. I left a lot of very upset nuns downstairs, demanding to know who you were and why you were intruding after visiting hours. But I’m only interested in one nun. Where is she?”

“Right here, Chief.” He swept out his right hand over Alice’s prone body. “I had to subdue her, since I caught her beating one of her nuns when I arrived. And she wasn’t the only one. You’ll have to add Unlawful Imprisonment and Assault and Battery to the charges against her. When I got here, I found my friend, Sister Annika, had been locked up in the Quiet Room after being mercilessly beaten.” He gestured to the nun sitting at the doctor’s desk. She had fixed her veil and was sitting up straighter now, but the bruises on her face still stood out lividly. “And her friend, Sister Kessandra over there on the exam table, was also being beaten by Mother Alice when I got here. Doctor Felix is a witness. So is young Lolita there, who helped me find the Quiet Room when I lost my way in the dark. That strapping lass between the cabinets is Ursula Durossi, who was keeping the good doctor from helping Sister Kes while Alice beat her. And that sturdy lass lying over there is Ursula’s sister, Beatrice. Alice sent her to fetch Annie while I was breaking her out of the Quiet Room. We had a bit of a tussle, but I was able to convince her to show me to the infirmary before Alice had the chance to do any more harm.”

“Well, well, well,” said Giotto as he stood with his hands on his hips surveying the scene. “Sounds like you three ladies have been busy tonight. I’m afraid I’m going to have to take you all into custody. Starting with you, Mother Alice. Let me help you to your feet. Now, you have the right to remain silent..."

                         ********

EPILOG

BOSTON, MASSACHUSETTS

MONDAY, JUNE 18TH, 5:45 P.M., 2012

Miral Paris sat on the coach in Quilleran and Picard’s apartment, wearing the princess dress her mother had given her for her 11th birthday in May. It was yellow satin with flounces, just like Belle’s in “Beauty and the Beast”. Her long, dark hair had been tied up with a matching ribbon at the crown. Her feet were clad in yellow ballerina flats and she fidgeted with a red silk rose in her hands. “Can I help, Jean-Luc? Please?” she begged her friend as he laid out snacks on the coffee table in the center of the room.

“No, darling, you already helped me bake the cake and the cookies yesterday. You just sit there and look pretty. Wouldn’t want you to ruin that pretty dress.” He finished laying out the snacks and stepped back to see the effect. The bright blue teapot in the center was surrounded by a colorful variety of cups and saucers, all salvaged from the same shops where he and his friends frequently brought their tea time dress-up clothing. A plate of cookies sat on the left, a plate of tea sandwiches on the right. The cake that he and Miral had baked yesterday sat on the dining table, all three chocolate tiers covered in white frosting, with “Happy 1st Anniversary” written in blue icing on the top.

Miral’s mother came out of the kitchen holding a full soup tureen. “Where does this go, Jean-Luc?”

“Over there, dear, next to the sandwiches.” Bettina put the blue soup tureen on the coffee table by the sandwich plate. Sighing, she reached behind herself to untie the apron she wore, revealing a yellow crinkle cotton skirt with a short-sleeved blue blouse and blue sandals. As much as she loved her daughter, she had refused to wear the Snow White dress Miral had urged her to wear for this special tea party. She had compromised by wearing a full-length skirt and blouse with similar colors.

Their host, or co-host, as his husband was expected home soon, looked cool as one of the cucumber sandwiches he’d spent all morning making, in sandals and white slacks with a short-sleeved blue Hawaiian-type shirt. He’d been preparing tea with the help of his two friends, who’d arrived over an hour ago. He now made sure the air conditioning was a tad higher than usual, to compensate for the amount of people who would be here today, to celebrate his and Quilleran’s first wedding anniversary. Isis looked comfortable lounging on the back of their favorite easy chair beneath the reading lamp. She appeared to be asleep, but she was secretly savoring the smell of the tea sandwiches, and planning to snatch a few of the deviled ham or chicken salad ones when the humans were too busy talking to notice her. Little did she know that the fancy dress collar Miral had put on her when she arrived, with the little silver bell on it, would give her away every time.

“Well, ladies, shall we begin or wait for our guests to arrive?” he asked them. 

“Let’s start with a cup of soup first,” Bettina suggested, sitting next to her daughter on the couch. “I skipped lunch to get here on time, and to make sure Princess Belle here was properly dressed for tea.” 

“Mommy, I can dress myself!” her little princess protested.

“Of course you can, Honey,” said her mother, remembering the way the yellow dress was fastened crookedly in back. “You just need a little help now and then.”

Jean-Luc filled one of the extra wide teacups with a ladleful of creamy clam chowder, put a couple of tea sandwiches on the saucer beneath it, and brought it to Bettina. “Here, my dear, taste the fruit of your labors.”

“Thank you, kind sir.” She smiled as she accepted the soup, took a big sip and sighed happily.

Before Jean-Luc could ask Miral if she wanted soup or tea, there were voices heard out in the hallway, followed by the sound of a key in the lock. The door opened, revealing Quilleran and two of the invited guests, whom he had picked up at the train station. “I’m home!” he announced cheerfully. “And I’m hungry!”

“Come right in, then,” his husband replied. “You’ve shown your usual cunning, arriving just in time for a meal.”

Quilleran ushered his guests inside before shutting the door. One was an elderly priest wearing black slacks and a short-sleeved black clerical shirt with a white tab collar, beneath an unbuttoned black jacket. He was holding a blue pet carrier in his right hand and leaning on the arm of a much taller nun, who was wearing a short black veil over her blonde hair and a modest black skirted suit, with the jacket open. A white porcelain cross with red roses hung on a gold chain around her neck, and a white rosary hung on her belt. She tenderly led the elderly priest into the apartment, looking for a comfortable seat for him. Quilleran, in red canvas shoes, tan slacks and a red tennis shirt, led them both into the living room, where he introduced them.

“Jean-Luc, this is Father Liam Keller, and this is Sister Annika. Oops! Sorry, I meant Mother Superior Annika Hanson. Liam, Annika, this is my husband, Jean-Luc Picard.”

“It’s good to meet you both,” the former priest greeted the two clerics. “Please have a seat, we were just beginning to serve tea.” He led them to the couch, where Bettina and Mural immediately gave up their seats, urging Father Liam to sit down and Mother Annika to sit beside him. Introductions were made all around, Annika and Liam admired Miral’s princess dress, tea and sandwiches were served, along with clam chowder to a hungry reporter, who wolfed down four of the little sandwiches with his soup while everyone else was nibbling and sipping as they got acquainted.

Miral noticed Father Liam’s blue pet carrier and asked, “What’s that, Father?”

“Oh, that’s for Q. He asked me to bring it with me today, as an anniversary present for Jean-Luc.”

“But what is it?” the child persisted.

Smiling, the elderly priest handed his cup and saucer to the child’s mother with a murmured “If you don’t mind, my dear?” She held them for him while he lifted the carrier to his lap. He unzipped the top of the carrier and flipped it open, reached inside and lifted out a little white cat, hardly more than a kitten. Miral squealed in delight while the ladies cooed, as the cat looked about him with big, blue eyes and mewed, pleased with the attention, but confused by his surroundings.

Across the room, Isis suddenly became alert. She sniffed the air and growled at the scent of a strange cat. Even a young one like this had the power to change her world, and she preferred her world as it was, thank you very much. Meanwhile, the little cat was being passed from hand to hand, being petted and fussed over. When he finally came to Miral she said, “Mommy, can we have a cat?” as she held him in her arms and stroked him.

“We’ll have to ask your father, Honey,” Bettina told her, scratching the cat under his chin and enjoying the loud purr emitting from the furry throat.

“Oh no, you don’t! Not this cat.” Quilleran swept down on them and plucked the cat from her arms. “Sorry, Miral, but I asked Father Liam to bring me this cat in particular. We became friends the first time I visited Father Liam in Rhineland. He was the only white kitten in a litter of six, the rest were all black and white. After I was finished with the story, I asked Father to give me the kitten so I could give it to Jean-Luc for our anniversary. Here you go, my love.” He laid the little cat gently in Jean-Luc’s arms. He hated letting go of it; it was still soft and white as a cloud, even if it was more than twice the size he remembered it. But his husband was delighted with the little creature, which made him feel better.

“Hello, handsome boy,” Jean-Luc crooned as he stroked the cat. “Yes, you’re a handsome boy, aren’t you?” The cat closed his eyes and purred as he rubbed his head against the stroking hand. He wished he could have stayed with the tall man, who he remembered gave good scratches, but this man was nice too. His hands were gentle and stroked him in all the right places. He smelled good, too. Jean-Luc sat down in the now vacant easy chair and held the cat on his lap as he stroked him.

Just as the white cat was starting to feel comfortable enough to begin kneading, he heard an unmistakable feline growl. He opened his eyes and saw a black cat staring up at him from the floor at Jean-Luc’s sandaled feet with hostile yellow eyes. _*Okay, kid, listen up!*_ Isis told the youngster in no uncertain terms. _*This is my home, and these are my humans. If you want to share them with me, you better show some respect. I’m the top cat here and you better remember it. Especially at meal time. Keep your nose out of my dishes! And if we have to use the litter box at the same time, you better let me go first. And God help you if I catch you sitting in this chair without a human lap beneath you! Is that clear, you little fur ball?*_

 _*Yes, ma’am!*_ the little white cat mewed timidly, deferring to Isis as the senior cat in the household. His mother had taught him to always be deferential to the senior cat in a multi-cat household, the one who was oldest or had lived there the longest. All his sisters had received the same training before being taken away to their new homes. Gladiola now had only one black and white baby left, the masked one, Harlequin. He, being the only white one and the only male, had been in great demand. But Father Liam had saved him for Q, which was what he heard his new human called by the priest, and Q’s husband, which had puzzled him at first, until his mother explained that some humans took mates of the same sex. Hoping that the older cat would be more forthcoming on the humans’ names, he asked her politely, _*Ma’am, could you please tell me what this human’s name is? And the tall one too?*_

 _*His name is Jean-Luc Picard. He’s an old dear, just like your Father Liam, so don’t you dare disrespect him. The tall one is John Quilleran. His friends call him Q.*_ Isis sat down on her haunches and continued to glare at the younger cat as she instructed him, to make sure he learned to respect her authority. _*For your own self-preservation, I suggest you spend more time in Jean-Luc’s lap than in Q’s. I’ve been living here since Q was married to my first human. His name was Gary. After he died, we lived alone together until Q met Jean-Luc. Then they got married. It’s a long story, one I’ll tell you when I’m in a better mood. For now, you’d better know your place and keep it.*_ She flexed her claws at him as she lifted her paw to her mouth and washed it. 

“Poor Isis,” said Miral, standing by the armchair to pet the white cat. “She must be jealous.”

“Yes, the poor dear has never had to share us with another cat,” said Jean-Luc. “Now she’s going to sit there washing her face and pretend to ignore him, probably hoping we’ll do the same.” He petted the cat some more, then looked up at Liam across the room. “Does he have a name?”

“I call him Sweet William,” said Liam as Annika handed him a fresh cup of Earl Gray tea and a couple of cookies. “Your spouse calls him Cloud William, because that’s what he reminds him of. But you can call him whatever you like, as long as you don’t call him late to dinner.”

“Oh, Liam!” Annika sighed as she shook her head at him. “That joke is older than you are.” He just laughed and sipped his tea.

“Aside from your promotion, have there been any changes at Saint Ann’s since Alice was arrested?” Quilleran asked her, sitting back with a mixed plate of sandwiches and cookies.

She paused to sip some tea before answering. “Well, after she was charged with baby selling, the church provided her with an attorney who helped her cut a deal with the state. She got a fifteen-year suspended sentence because of her age, in return for which the church transferred her to a retirement home for Catholic seniors in Buffalo. All the babies who were adopted from Saint Ann’s within the last two years were tracked down; the ones whose mothers had been told they died were returned to them. Happily, there weren’t that many, since out-of-wedlock births aren’t as stigmatized as they used to be.”

“I knew there had to be more girls like Carol. How many girls did Alice lie to besides her?”

“Oh, she was doing it long before Carol came. Most of our girls come to us knowing they have to give up their babies. Their babies would go to Catholic orphanages or foster homes until they were adopted. The girls who kept their babies usually went to live with a relative out of state.  But when a girl refused to give up her baby, sometimes her parents would offer Mother Alice a bonus, to make sure the baby didn’t come home with her.”

“You mean they would give her money to fake the baby’s death?” Jean-Luc exclaimed, looking horrified. “And lie to their daughter about it?”

Annika nodded. “That was one portion of the Thank Offering she never shared with me, or Kes, or the doctor. We didn’t find out about it until the trial.”    

“What about grown adoptees like David?” asked Quilleran.

“They were given the right to contact their birth mothers and let them know they were alive. The court found it in the best interests of the children not to take adoptees over age two from their adoptive families. That didn’t stop a group of women from suing Saint Ann’s. The church settled with them as well. I believe most of them won visitation rights, to see children over two and in their teens.”

“Were you offered immunity for testifying?” asked Bettina.

“Yes, so was Kes, since we both helped girls escape from Saint Ann’s. Between us, we were able to help an average of four girls a year escape before their babies were born. Most of them eloped with the baby’s father, some went to live with relatives in other states. Some we pretended to transfer to the hospital for pregnancy-related complications. From there they left with the baby to start a new life together. Kes and I had to create fake death certificates for those, to make it look like both mother and baby had died.” She sipped her tea and added drily, “Mother Alice was always more upset over losing the baby than the mother.”

“Yes, it’s always upsetting to see money slip through your fingers,” Quilleran remarked. “What happened to Doctor Felix?”

“He pleaded guilty to second degree murder. His lawyer got it reduced to involuntary manslaughter. Because of his age and his clean record since his patient died, the judge sentenced him to two years in a minimum detention facility. Kes and I were both glad that he was spared hard time. I think she’ll miss him more than I do.”

“I got that impression too.” Quilleran remembered how tearful the doctor was at the sight of Sister Kes being whipped. He wondered if she intended to leave the sisterhood for him after he was released, decided it was none of his business and stuffed his face with more sandwiches.  

“What about that detestable Father McKenzie?” Jean-Luc asked as he gently detached William’s claws from his left thigh, his kneading having gotten too enthusiastic.

“Oh, he had the book thrown at him, by the church and the state,” Mother Annika assured him. “When the Archdiocese of New York learned of the charges, they informed us that because of his past record, and this ‘new episode of recidivism’,” she quoted primly, “they were, regretfully, unable to offer him counsel and suggested he get a private attorney.” She chuckled, remembering McKenzie’s expression as this statement was read aloud in court by Mother Alice’s attorney. “Of course this made him eager to make a deal with the state.” 

“He ratted out Alice, didn’t he?” said Quilleran with a grin.

“He sang like a choirboy. Not that he ever touched choirboys,” she hastened to assure them. “He preferred young men who were not affiliated with the church, usually street kids who came to confession hoping for counseling. As well as local boys who worked at businesses that delivered to the church. Dry cleaners, restaurants, book stores and so on. That all happened back in Cardinal Spellman’s time, but the church was still eager to keep it quiet, so he managed to finagle his way to a lighter sentence than he deserved.”

“Did they defrock him at least?” Bettina demanded.

“They had to, especially after Aaron Eisenhower testified. He got a lighter sentence than McKenzie because he was ‘underage and under undue influence’, according to the judge. At least he tempered justice with mercy.” She finished her tea and petted Father Liam’s arm. “Nevertheless, I persuaded Liam to install a security system at his house, with a panic button to notify the police, in case McKenzie decided to send any more of his little friends after him.”

“I understand he had quite a few of them,” the elderly priest remarked. “I apologize for speaking so frankly in front of your daughter, Bettina, but children need to know that bad men come in all varieties; priests, teachers, camp counselors, even the next door neighbor with kids of his own. All these pillars of the community have easy access to children, and should be watched more closely on that account. And the youngsters they victimize should be listened to, not dismissed as troublemakers, whether they’re street kids or just unhappy kids who go to these trusted adults for counseling and end up getting more than they expected.”

“You said a mouthful, Father,” Bettina told him, looking at her young daughter. “Her father and I have already warned Miral to watch out for nasty men who want to touch her. Gene taught her a few dirty tricks to defend herself. So did I, since I’m a former street kid who ran with a gang before I met my husband.”

Jean-Luc remembered the faded tattoos he’d seen on her arms, but said nothing. He’d counseled enough street kids himself during his time as a priest not to be judgmental.

Just then the buzzer sounded. Quilleran got up and went to the door panel, buzzed back and said, “Who is it?”

Quinn’s cheerful voice answered back. “It’s us, Q! Hope you left us some tea sandwiches.”

“Oh, sure, come on up.” He buzzed them into the building, then looked back at his husband. “There are plenty of sandwiches left, right?”

Smiling, Jean-Luc got up and went into the kitchen, taking William with him. He returned a few minutes later carrying a platter full of sandwiches covered with plastic wrap, with the cat following close behind, eagerly looking up at the goodies. “I made extra, knowing how much Quinn eats,” he explained as he proceeded to refill the platter on the coffee table. He put down a couple of sandwiches for the cats too, and watched carefully to make sure that Isis didn’t pounce on William’s before he did. Happily, both cats were soon occupied with eating their sandwiches, at a good distance from each other. They were both washing up as the doorbell rang.

Quilleran opened the door and Quinn entered, wearing a light blue summer suit and holding a bottle of champagne. Kathryn came right behind him, wearing a turquoise and white gauze print summer dress with a turquoise shrug, carrying a covered casserole dish. Right behind them were Roberta, Father Joseph and Sister Edith. Roberta wore a green batik dress with a white shrug and had a gift wrapped box in her hands, while Edith, wearing a black veil and a knee-length black habit, carried a shopping bag with a big gift-wrapped box inside, and Joseph, also wearing a short-sleeved cleric’s shirt with a tab collar beneath a black jacket over black slacks, had a six-pack of non-alcoholic New Orleans ginger beer in each hand. “In case you run out of tea!” he said cheerfully as he handed them to Quilleran. He went to put them in the fridge, along with Quinn’s champagne.

“I brought Welsh Rabbit,” Kathryn announced. “May I put it in your microwave, Jean-Luc?”

“Certainly; let me make some toast.”

“Don’t bother, I know where the toaster is.” She headed for the kitchen too. A minute later Quilleran came back out and asked why Kathryn was making toast. His husband told him about the Welsh Rabbit and he approved. Then he got busy saying hello to the newly arrived guests and introducing them to the other guests. By the time Kathryn came out with the rewarmed Welsh Rabbit and a plate of toast triangles to dip into it, everybody had a cup of tea or soup in their hands with the snack of their choice. Kathryn’s offering was greeted with great enthusiasm by the other guests. Even Miral was curious enough to dip a toast triangle into the hot, gooey cheese mixture and munched it up happily 

“Did you make it with white wine or with beer?” Jean-Luc asked Kathryn before he dipped his toast. 

“With beer, since there was only one bottle left. Don’t worry,” she told Miral’s mother, “the alcohol isn’t enough to make anyone drunk.”

“Oh, I’m not worried about that. She’s shared her father’s beer plenty of times, usually what’s left at the bottom of the bottle during halftime. I’m just hoping there’ll be enough for Gene when he gets here.”

While everyone else was eating and getting acquainted, Jean-Luc was presented with a blue plastic bowl and dish for William, by his former owner. He rinsed them out, filled the bowl with water and put it near Isis’ bowl, but not too close, and filled the dish with dry cat food. He also refilled Isis’ bowl, to keep her from stealing William’s food. Both cats ran over to their bowls and began stuffing themselves with chicken-flavored crunchies. He also gave a handful of soft tuna-flavored treats to each cat, leaving them on opposite sides of the bowls out of sight from the other cat. While they were busy eating, Isis muttering threats at William in between bites, which he ignored, Jean-Luc inspected the litter box in the bathroom, scooped it out and poured a layer of fresh litter on top.

As soon as he came out of the bathroom, the doorbell rang again. He answered it and found Detective Eugene Paris, still wearing his badge around his neck over a red short-sleeved shirt and blue slacks. He also had a bottle of champagne in a plastic bag, along with a package of plastic champagne flutes and fancy paper plates. “First anniversary is paper, so I figured you could use these for the food so you wouldn’t have as many dishes to wash,” he explained.

“Thank you, Eugene.” The cop smiled weakly at the sound of his hated baptismal name. “If you’re hungry, there’s some soup left, and plenty of sandwiches. Oh, and Kathryn brought Welsh Rabbit.”

“What’s that?” He led him to the coffee table and showed him. He lost no time opening the paper plates and dunking as many pieces of toast as he could. Picard retreated to the kitchen to make more toast, while Paris’ wife put sandwiches on his plate so he wouldn’t fill up on cheese. His daughter added a few ginger snaps and crisp lemon cookies. That and a big teacup of soup satisfied the hungry cop. In between bites he asked Mother Annika about what went down at Saint Ann’s after Q’s story broke; he’d read it in The Boston Globe. She repeated everything she had told the others, with some assistance from Father Liam, who’d been a witness at the trial.

“Oh, by the way, Q, how are Jim and Carol?” asked Edith, genuinely concerned for them both, despite their being the cause of her heartbreak.

“They’re doing fine,” Quilleran assured her. “Enjoying their son, along with his wife and daughter, who incidentally is thrilled to have a full set of grandparents.”

“They have a dog, too,” said Miral. “Q showed me a picture on his phone. Can we have a dog too, Daddy? Or a kitty?  Q just got one for Jean-Luc.” 

“Yes, this one here.” Quilleran bent over to pick up the white cat, who was busy sniffing the rug where his sandwich had been. After he was introduced to Paris, he told his daughter that he preferred little cats to big dogs in their apartment, so he would take her to the animal shelter this weekend and help her pick out a kitty.

“Oh, Edith, did Annika tell you about McKinsey?” said Quilleran, a mischievous gleam in his eyes. “It seems the church threw him under the bus when they found out he was messing with boys again.”

“Do tell?” Edith smiled with a touch of malice. Turning to her sister religious on the couch, she asked for the details, which Annika gladly gave her. Father Liam had moved down to make room for them, and he was now talking to Miral about cat and kitten care. By now the teapot was empty and the last dregs of soup from the tureen were being emptied into Quinn’s big teacup.

“Had enough chowder, dear?” Kathryn asked. He belched in reply. She rolled her eyes, checked the Welsh Rabbit and found it nearly gone, and suggested now would be a good time to serve the main course.  Jean-Luc agreed and asked her to meet him in the kitchen with Paris’ paper plates. When they came back, each carried a tray with four paper plates carefully placed on them; on each plate was a serving of fish and chips with a plastic fork. Moving among the guests, they distributed the plates, going back into the kitchen for more until everybody had one.  When the teapot on the stove whistled, Jean-Luc refilled the blue teapot, which he had already rinsed out and put fresh teabags into. Father Joseph asked for a couple cans of his ginger beer, which he shared with Miral, after assuring her parents it was nonalcoholic.

Meanwhile, Quilleran had put a bottle of tartar sauce and a bottle of ketchup on the coffee table in place of the soup tureen. “I wanted to do Chinese,” he told them as he dipped a portion of his fish into the tartar sauce. “But he found filet of sole on sale when he went to the fish store to buy clams, so I wound up peeling a ton of potatoes to make all these fries.”

“Oven fries, for those of you counting your calories,” Picard told them as he finally sat down to eat. Both cats were moving among the guests now, trying to see who would give them a bite of fish.

Seeing the auburn-haired Kathryn reminded Quilleran of the redhead who’d helped him take down Mother Alice and her crew. “Annika, have you heard from Lolita?”

“Yes, she invited me to her wedding after the trial. You left on the morning following the arrest, so you didn’t meet her Aunt Roxie when she drove up in her little yellow Fiat. And guess who was in the car with her? Jake Siscomb, Lolita’s boyfriend!”

“Her baby’s father?”

“Yes, and he’s black! That’s why her father didn’t want them to marry. He’s from Alabama, where that sort of thing just ain’t done, according to Lolita. They were supposed to elope last fall, on Thanksgiving weekend, but her father found out and got there ahead of her. When he found Jake waiting by the side of the road near his car, he shot him from behind and hid him in the tall grass. But the poor boy was only wounded, not dead. He came to in time to see Lolita’s father driving his car away to a more remote area, leaving Jake for dead. So when Lolita came and didn’t find Jake or his car, she thought he had abandoned her.”

“Is he okay now?”

“Yes, he managed to crawl out of the grass and to the highway, where a Good Samaritan found him, put him in his car and drove him to a hospital. But he went into a coma before the police arrived, so he couldn’t tell them who had shot him. It took the police a while to find Daddy Dearest; by that time, he’d already sent Lolita to Saint Ann’s. That’s one baby we would have had trouble placing on our private adoption list, since mixed race children aren’t in big demand.”

“Yes, I remember. What happened to the baby girl who was ‘too black’?”

“Her mommy and daddy are married now, and living happily with his mother in Queens. I sent word to Milagros’ boyfriend when she was sent to the hospital. He came to see them and was delighted to see that the baby looked just like his mother. So he paid the hospital bill and took them back to New York City. Milagros’ father was furious, but once they were married there was nothing he could do.”

“What about Lorena’s father?”

“Oh, he was so mad he threatened to sue the home, but then he was subpoenaed as a witness, so he was too busy defending himself to hassle Saint Ann’s, or his daughter and her new husband. Incidentally, their baby boy is as dark as his mother, so he wouldn’t have made the cut either.”

“Why don’t people want black babies?” Miral asked innocently. “A baby is a baby.” Her parents had to explain to her that skin color was more important to some people than others. Father Joseph told them a story about his former parish in Metaire, Louisiana, where a member of his congregation, a black man, almost divorced his black wife for giving birth to a white baby. It turned out that the baby was an albino, and it came from his father’s side of the family. A blood test proved the wife’s innocence and the husband’s mother told him about her albino brother who died before her son was born. She even had pictures showing a white-skinned Negro boy posing next to her as a little girl. So the woman’s husband had to apologize and shower her with roses before she forgave him enough to come home with the baby.

It was now time to serve the cake and champagne. So Kathryn and Jean-Luc took the paper plates and plastic champagne flutes over to the dining table, got out the first bottle of champagne brought by Quinn, which was nicely chilled by now, a couple of real champagne glasses for the happy couple, plastic forks and a cake slicer. While they were busy arranging the plates and lighting the candle, which was shaped like the number one, Roberta arranged the presents around the table, including the ones that had been arriving in the mail all week from New York. There was a framed photo from the Riker family showing them posing with the staff and kids Jean-Luc had worked with at Under 18, five boxes of bread mix and two vacuum-sealed packages of smoked salmon from Father Geordie at Saint Joseph’s Haven, a tin box of homemade banana bread from Anise, and a purple scented candle painted with two gold hearts from Goldie. The most beautiful gift was from Father Benjamin and his wife, a framed prayer from First Corinthians, verse 13:4-8 _: “Love is patient, love is kind, it does not envy, it does not boast, it is not proud, it is not rude, it is not self-seeking, it is not easily angered, it keeps no record of wrongs. Love does not delight in evil, but rejoices with the truth. It always protects. It always trusts, always hopes, always perseveres. Love never fails...”_   

Jean-Luc hung up this prayer and the photo from Under 18 right beneath their wedding photo, which hung on the wall of the corridor leading to their bedroom. It was the formal wedding photo, taken outside of the wedding chapel last June; most of the people in it were still in New York. Everyone gathered around the table as the candle began to drip while Quilleran wrestled with the cork in the champagne bottle. The cork finally came out with a loud pop, frightening both cats so much they ran and hid beneath the furniture. There was just enough champagne to go around, after Father Joseph had poured ginger beer into his glass and Miral’s. Then everybody toasted the happy couple, who then blew out the candle together and proceeded to cut the cake and pass it out.

As everybody was sitting around eating cake, sipping and chatting, Roberta’s cell phone rang. She excused herself to Bettina, with whom she had been speaking, accepted the call and put the phone to her ear. “Hello?” After listening for a few moments, she looked concerned. “Yes, I’ll ask him,” she said into the phone. “I think you’re doing the right thing. But it may help you to talk to someone who’s already been through it. Okay, I’ll call you back after I talk to him. Bye.” She ended the call and sat staring at the phone in her hand for a while.

“Is something wrong?” Bettina asked.

“No, nothing serious. But I need to talk to Jean-Luc. Will you excuse me for a bit?”

“Oh, sure.” She watched Roberta walk away, wondering what the call was about, then was distracted by her daughter asking if she could accompany her and Daddy to the animal shelter on Saturday so they could all pick out a kitty together.

“Excuse me, Jean-Luc,” Roberta said to him as he sat sipping champagne contentedly at the dining table, with his husband’s arm wrapped around him. “I just got a phone call from Father Jason. You remember him, Q, he’s Kevin’s boyfriend.”

“Oh, yes,” said Quilleran after a moment’s thought. “The little blond fellow McKenzie sent after me, trying to get compromising photos of us together. Did he ever send you any?” he asked Jean-Luc.

“Not a one.” Jean-Luc shook his head. “I suppose he meant to do so, the last time he came here. But Mural and her mother scared him off.”

Quilleran laughed. “Yes, I’d love to hear them tell me about it! So what’s up with Father Jason and Kevin?” he asked his assistant.

“Well, Kevin got a new job at that school where you recommended him, Q. So Jason moved in with him, and now he wants to leave the priesthood, so they can get married.”

“Sounds wonderful to me,” commented Jean-Luc.

“Me too,” Quilleran agreed, giving him an affectionate squeeze.

“Yes, but Jason’s not sure what to do, so he called me to ask you if you could speak to him, Jean-Luc, about your own experience leaving the priesthood.”

“I would be glad to,” he assured her. “Ask him to come to Saint John’s Community Center tomorrow, between noon and one o’clock.”

“Thank you, Jean-Luc.” She looked relieved. “I really like these guys and I was hoping for a happy ending for them. But first Jason has to smooth things over with the church for leaving San Martin’s without permission, before he can apply for—well, you know.” She looked flustered at being unable to remember the term for leaving the priesthood.

“Laicization,” Jean-Luc told her kindly. “Don’t worry, I’ll explain the proper procedure to him when we meet tomorrow. I’m sure that Joseph will help too.”

“And Edith can give him the woman’s point of view,” Quilleran chimed in.

“Edith came back to the church, my love,” Jean-Luc reminded him.

“Well, if he still wants to work for the church, he can be a volunteer like you. But he’ll need a paying job too.”

“I believe there are a couple of positions available at Saint John’s. Not much pay, mind you, but if you like working with kids, it’s quite rewarding.”

“Doesn’t sound much different from what he was doing before at Saint Stephen’s High,” Roberta commented.

“Then he should feel right at home,” said Quilleran decisively. They all laughed as Quinn headed for the kitchen to get the second bottle of champagne, Kathryn following him to fill a couple of paper plates with leftover fish and chips for them to share. Father Joseph and Father Liam were drinking ginger beer and swapping stories about their parishes and the people in them. Mother Annika and Sister Edith were cheerfully tearing the former Father McKenzie apart as they discussed his part in Mother Alice’s adoption racket and the destruction of Edith’s marriage. The Paris family was playing with Isis and William, who had come out from under the furniture once they noticed that the remaining tea sandwiches had been left unguarded. Miral was in heaven, with William on her lap licking chicken salad off her fingers, while Isis was charming Detective Paris into feeding her deviled ham as Bettina petted her.

 _*Are all humans this nice?*_ William asked Isis in between licks of the little sandwich.  

 _*These humans are,*_ Isis assured him. _*They’ll protect you from the bad ones. But sometimes you have to protect them from the bad ones too.*_ She proceeded to tell him how, as the humans around them discussed good and bad humans and the way they had affected their lives.

Roberta was now talking to Jason on her cell phone, as Quilleran and Picard drank from their refilled glasses, while Quinn and Kathryn sat across from them nibbling on fries and fish, in between sips of champagne. Joseph was inviting Liam and Annika to spend the night at his rectory to save the cost of two hotel rooms. Edith was seriously considering Annika’s offer to transfer to Saint Anne’s, since they were so short-handed after dismissing all the nuns who were most unpopular with the students. The new mother superior was looking for nuns with a more forgiving attitude toward unwed mothers.   She had also dismissed most of the security guards, for the same reason, so she could now afford to lower the fee for a girl’s stay, and offer scholarships to girls from low income families. The home now had two new doctors; Doctor Fox, a cheerful, middle aged man who loved animals, and Doctor Urban, a younger man fresh out of residency, with a very earnest manner and a Southern drawl.

So the day slowly turned toward night and all the problems of the good people in this particular co-op apartment in Boston were resolved. Happy endings all around, which pleased Princess Miral very much as she fell asleep with a white cat in her lap and a black cat wrapped around her shoulders like a stole, while her parents were wrapping up leftovers in foil to take home after biding their hosts goodnight.


End file.
